SALTER...
The salt kingdom. Damp and briny, where the sea mist clings to the stones as though it were part of them, and where humidity never leaves the walls, not even on the hottest of days.
Inside the corridors of High Tide Keep, in one of the libraries overlooking the raging coast, Marcus, King of the Six Seas, sat in his wide wooden chair as though lounging upon a temporary throne. Both feet rested upon the desk. His fingers moved lazily, fidgeting with small sea stones, turning them over in his hands like thoughts waiting to settle. He was waiting for someone.
And indeed, the wait was not long. The door opened.
In came his old assistant. Behind him, two sea knights, their heavy cloaks still carrying the scent of the waves.
Marcus raised his head slowly, then straightened slightly in his seat. He looked at the old man with strange curiosity before asking, "Do you know how to swim?"
The old man was flustered. He said in his usual quavering voice, "No, my lord. I have always preferred dry land."
Marcus rose slowly and walked toward the high window of the keep. He stood there, looking down upon the kingdom, to its bottom, to the narrow, damp alleys, the houses stacked upon one another as though afraid of falling into the sea. Then he said quietly, without turning, "I have climbed so high in this world that I have forgotten what the bottom looked like."
He paused a moment, then added in a lower voice, "But whenever I forget, I look again... to remember."
He kept looking down, as though the past stood there.
Then he said, "In alleys like those, I used to live in a crumbling house—me, my mother, my father, my brother, and my little sister." A small smile crossed his face, but it was not a happy one. "I always resented that house. But I never thought it resented me back."
He was silent a moment, then continued. "One night, the ceiling was wobbling as usual. The dampness had sucked the strength from it. But I thought it was like any other night—moving with the strong winds and the passing of carts."
He lowered his head slightly, his eyes fixed on some distant place. "But I was not drowning in my dreams. What I thought was a dream turned out to be real."
He squeezed one of the sea stones in his fist and continued. "A large pillar fell from the ceiling. Suddenly."
He said with terrifying coldness, "I found myself covering my sister's body while the pillar fell far away."
His hand stopped.
"But my brother's screaming told me it was not far enough."
He finally turned toward the old man, his eyes empty of any remorse. "My brother was in pain—the pillar had fallen on his foot. I approached slowly. The whole house was moving by then. I did not hesitate. I did not tremble."
Marcus's voice grew colder. "I took my sister's hand. And left my father, my mother, and my brother."
Silence.
"Until the whole house fell on top of them."
The old man trembled without realizing it. As for Marcus, he smiled.
"At first I doubted. But with time, I realized what saved me and what saved my sister." He stepped closer and said in a steady tone, "I am a person who does not hesitate. I have no mercy for anyone when the gods themselves have removed their mercy from you. Who am I to stand against their will?"
Then he continued, "They say mercy on the battlefield is treason. And I hate treason."
The old man swallowed his saliva with difficulty. Then he said hesitantly, "What do you mean, my lord? What treason are you speaking of?"
Marcus looked at him for a long moment, then said with terrifying calm, "Take him out."
The old man froze. "My lord?"
Marcus said without blinking, "Prepare him for the last ship."
The knights seized the old man and began to drag him away while his bewildered voice echoed behind them.
As for Marcus, he left the library quietly, as though nothing had happened.
Inside the dining hall, his sister Sereine was seated. Her skin pale and pure. Her beauty hidden from nearly the entire kingdom. Even the servants permitted to see her were few. Marcus had ensured that. He made her his most important secret, his weakness and his strength—the only one no one knew.
She stood at the sight of him, but Marcus gestured for her to sit and said with a smile, "Sit. Eat. You must preserve your health."
She sat, then said quietly, "I heard that this morning you arrested Ser George."
Marcus began eating calmly. Then he said, "That is true."
She said, "What exactly did he do?"
He raised his gaze to her and said, as though speaking of the weather, "He committed treason against me and against my people. He questioned my integrity. He showed pity to the enemy. I hate when someone claims honor on the battlefield, my dear sister."
Then he continued, "He was sending letters of conspiracy to someone in Ironfield. We do not yet know who that person is, but we know it is not that fool Gerald. He is far too stupid for that."
He paused, then smiled at her. "But everything will become clear in the future. And all of this will be thanks to you, my dear sister."
She looked at him with clear bewilderment. "What do you mean?"
Marcus smiled more. "The sea has swallowed many things here. But I will not allow it to swallow your beauty." Then he sat up straight. "I will send you to the kingdom of Izzadar."
Silence fell.
"I will get you into the palace my own way. You will be the beautiful maid, Klara."
Then he said, as though explaining a clear future, "And you will ensnare King Meriel. You will comfort him. You will cook for him. You will make him drown in love for you. That's not difficult for your beauty, my sister." He smiled a cold smile. "You will marry him as planned. And bear him children as also planned. That will make the kingdom of Izzadar ours by proxy. The next time we see each other, we will be kings, not just brother and sister."
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Then he said lightly, "Thank God I kept the traitor George far away from you."
Sereine did not hesitate, not for a moment. She said directly, "I will do it."
Marcus raised his eyebrow in genuine surprise. Then he laughed lightly. "Well said, Lady of Izzadar. Honor is being on top, no matter how or when. But top."
Sereine grew somewhat serious. Then she said, "You did not hesitate at all to protect me. And I will not hesitate to trust you."
Marcus approached and kissed her head.
So she said quietly, "But what exactly do you want from the kingdom of Izzadar?"
Marcus smiled as he was leaving. "It already has a high keep. I like high keeps."
Then he left.
The guards accompanied him to the coast. And beneath the heavy sound of the waves and the creaking of taut ropes, the Tide Horn echoed throughout the kingdom. A sound everyone knew—children, women, elders. All who heard it understood one thing: a public trial.
In Salter, that was not so much a terrifying thing as it was a form of entertainment. And Marcus knew that well, and exploited it. For the people always needed something to fill their emptiness, even if the price was a human soul.
Marcus reached the harbor first, as always, and boarded the Last Ship, his favorite vessel. A ship that never returned empty.
Shortly after, the knights arrived, holding the old man George bound. His clothes wet with sweat, his eyes full of terror. He was shouting, resisting. "I am innocent! I am no traitor!"
Marcus stood at the bow of the ship, the wind playing with his hair. Then he looked at him and said with terrifying calm, "The sea will decide that."
He paused, then added, "And if you are truly one of us, you will trust in its will."
George trembled more, but no one answered. The knights seized him and placed him in a small boat riddled with tiny holes. A boat that did not sink quickly, but slowly, as though the sea itself took pleasure in it. They bound him with a thick rope, but one that could be cut. Then Marcus threw a knife into the boat and said quietly, "For a fair trial."
The ship sailed, leaving the boat behind. But before departing, the men threw pig entrails and blood around the boat to attract the sharks.
The ship moved away slowly while George gripped the knife, trying to cut the rope, but his trembling hands barely obeyed him. And the water began to seep into the boat, little by little. It grew heavier, and heavier, and heavier.
He kept cutting the rope like a madman until it finally snapped. He jumped directly into the sea and began swimming with whatever strength remained in him.
But beside him, the sharks swam quietly, as though they already knew the end. He swam, giving everything he had, but to no avail, as though he were swimming in place.
Then, in a single moment, a shark struck and pulled him under. He vanished without resistance, without a sound. Only disturbed circles of water. Then nothing.
One of the knights stood upon the ship and raised his voice high. "The trial is over. He is guilty."
FAR AWAY...
In the hottest regions of the Lands of the Rocks, inside the kingdom of Valkryn, the Wild Falcon, in the northern part, inside one of the famous public taverns, men were toasting the harvest, spending coin, drinking, laughing. Whores moved between the tables, and stories echoed like every night. And lies were more abundant than truth.
But there was only one truth that everyone could speak of without fear: Tom the One-Handed. A local legend. The only man said to have killed three Normens with only one hand.
The door opened. A mysterious man entered, wearing a long cloak, concealing his left arm entirely. He entered in silence and sat. Then he said quietly, "Watermelon juice."
Silence fell for a second, then glances began to turn toward him.
One of the men whispered, "That is him... that is Tom the One-Handed."
Another said, with a mix of fear and admiration, "They say he does not drink alcohol because he does not want to speak of it—the king's men are everywhere, and the king himself is searching for him."
Another man laughed lightly and said, "Though we know him, we would rather lose part of our harvest than part of our heads."
The man finished his juice, stood, and left without a single word.
In the heart of the kingdom, inside the palace, upon the throne of the High Falcon, King Sam sat. Before him, the dining table. And below the steps, another table. Around it sat his mother and his sister Kormel.
Sam ate and looked at his mother from time to time, then smiled. But the mother ate in silence, her eyes fixed on the table, as though she feared looking at anything.
Kormel raised her head and looked at Sam with clear irritation. "Is it so necessary for her to eat at the same table as me?"
Sam looked at her, smiled, then said, "How dare you speak like that before our mother?"
Kormel rose nervously and said before leaving, "You lunatic."
She left the hall. As for Sam, he kept smiling, then he turned to his mother and said with feigned gentleness, "Forgive her, Mother. She is always angry. But that does not mean she hates you."
The mother did not raise her head, did not look at him, did not say anything. She only kept staring at the table.
Sam grew bored and sighed. Then he said, "In any case, I have finished my meal. I will go to the council. No doubt the kingdom's masters have gathered."
He descended from his place, kissed her head, then wiped a tear from her cheek, and left.
Inside the council chamber, the eight ministers were assembled, sitting in precise hierarchy: the Master of Agriculture, the Master of Trade, the Master of Relations, the Master of Entertainment, the Master of Coins, the Master of War, the Master of the Keep, and the Master of Whores—as King Sam had named him.
They were speaking among themselves quietly, respectfully, even with something of their usual affection. But the moment Sam entered, silence fell suddenly. He looked at them, then smiled his suspicious smile, and sat. As for them, they remained standing.
Until he gestured with his hand. "Sit."
They sat at once. Sam sat upright and placed his hands upon the table. Then he said, "The harvest season has passed. We are waiting for good news from you, Lord Raglock."
The Master stood quickly and said, "We have observed a rise in this year's harvest. We have a significant surplus that we can trade with all four kingdoms. And if anything remains, we can send it to the Wall, my lord."
Sam smiled and said, "Good. Our kingdom stands on the generosity of its land."
Then he added, "I want the kingdoms that have good relations with us to have enough food. I want them to feel our favor upon them. And we will try to return that favor twofold."
Then his tone changed slightly. "Regarding the kingdom of Izzadar—we will not give their merchants a single onion until King Meriel breaks his back to me."
Sam continued, tapping his fingers upon the wooden table with light taps, like a man thinking of a game rather than governing a kingdom. "Master of Relations, send a falcon to the kingdom of Izzadar bearing my condolences. That will push him to concede somewhat."
He leaned back slightly. Satisfaction appeared on his face before he continued. "The old man told me they will hold a funeral. I think King Meriel has surrendered to the reality of life."
Then he smiled a small smile. Cold. Calculated. "This is good. We need their crafts, and they need our food."
He raised his finger slightly, as if remembering something important. "Tell him in the letter that I look forward to restoring relations provided that he apologizes for what he said previously. And leave the final decision to him."
He paused for a second, then said in a tone carrying something of mockery, "I avoided meeting him at the wall for a moment like this."
The Master of Relations bowed his head quickly. "As you command, my lord."
Sam let his eyes pass over the ministers one by one until his eyes stopped at the Master of War. His smile faded slightly, and his voice grew more serious. "Have you found the One-Handed Man?"
The Master stood at once. A broad-shouldered man, bearing old wound marks near his neck, his voice rough as if war still lived in his throat. He said, "Our men have spread throughout all the kingdoms. Their ears are in every tavern. He is drawing near, my lord. Soon he will be within your grasp."
Sam nodded slowly. Then he said, "Motivate the soldiers. Motivation is everything. I need that fighter by my side."
Silence fell for a moment. Then Sam turned toward the Master of Whores, a thin man, neat in appearance, always trying to seem less tense than he was.
Sam rose from his place and said without looking at anyone, "Come with me."
Inside the king's chamber, Sam sat upon his great chair, crossed one leg over the other, then looked at the Master for a long time.
Before saying, "Do you know why I appointed you as a master in my keep, even though it might defile it?"
The man swallowed his saliva and said quickly, "I know, my lord."
Sam tilted his head slightly. "The whores..."
Then he laughed lightly. "Tell your women to move their asses more. I need to find her as soon as possible."
He leaned closer. "There is no better way than the chatter of women to find my future wife."
The Master grew more tense and said quickly, "We have searched throughout the entire kingdom of Salter. In every tavern. We ask every person. But we have not found the woman you want, my lord. She is a ghost."
The smile vanished from Sam's face completely. "It is no surprise that your wife cannot bear children."
He leaned forward. His voice became low, quiet in a terrifying way. "She cannot even pretend to be a mother. Next time, I will not settle for your wife's tongue. I will take her life and throw her corpse to my falcons."
The Master raised his head quickly. His face went completely pale. "I will find her, my lord. She will be yours soon."
The Master hurried out, so fast that he collided with the Master of Relations at the door, without even apologizing.
At the top of the tower, the Master of Relations stood. The cold wind struck his cloak. He took out the letter and tied it to the falcon's foot. He patted its head lightly, then released it.
The falcon flew high above the sky of Valkryn, crossing the golden fields, then over the dense forests of Inkiet, until the walls of Izzadar began to appear. High. Heavy. As though they did not guard a kingdom, but guarded an ancient fear.
But what caught the falcon's attention first was not the wall. It was the crowd.
Outside the walls, a whole people gathered, silent. And in the center, the funeral of the king's two sons.
Meriel stood among the people. His features pale, his eyes sunken with exhaustion, as though sleep had abandoned him days ago. In his hands were the toys of Edd and Ned. Two small things, but they were heavier than his hammer, and heavier than the burdens of his people.
At the top of the platform, the burning pyres were stacked, arranged with care. And beside them, a tall iron rod, waiting for the lightning to strike.
But there was no corpse. Only two toys.
Meriel climbed the steps slowly, and each step seemed heavier than the last. He stopped before the pyre and looked at the two toys for a long time, as though they might answer, as though they might move. Then, without hesitation, he placed them inside the wood. He descended slowly and stood beside his brother. The entire crowd was in majestic silence, waiting.
For in Izzadar, the people do not light the funerals. The lightning decides. If it strikes, then the god has accepted the dead. And if it does not, then that means something no one dares to speak.
Moments passed. Heavy.
Then light split the sky. A tremendous bolt of lightning descended with terrifying speed. It struck the iron rod directly, and the pyre ignited. The fire rose quickly, devouring the wood, swallowing the smoke toward the sky.
But inside Meriel, something else was burning. Only one thought: My children are gone... without my seeing them go.
The people kept watching the fire beneath the gray sky and the frowning weather. But Meriel could not bear it. He turned and parted the crowd in silence, avoiding the eyes of the people.
Cold drops began to fall upon his skin. But they, in a strange way, were warm upon his heart. Then suddenly, the light rain turned into a storm.
Meriel turned and froze in place.
The pyre had gone out.
In a single moment, he ran at once, climbed the steps, and bent down quickly. His trembling hands searched through the ash. Then he stopped. The two toys. Unchanged. The fire had not touched them. As though it had refused to consume them.
Meriel raised the two toys high.
At first, an incomprehensible silence fell. The people stared, unable to understand. Then one voice began. Then another. Then another. Until it turned into shouting—shouting of hope. The hope of an entire kingdom.
TEN DAYS EARLIER
In one of the forests near the River Mazz, a shepherd was leading his sheep toward the water, as was his custom. But before the sheep could reach the river, they stopped. They froze.
The water was black. A blackness his eyes had never seen before, as though night had melted inside it.
He rushed to pull the sheep away. "Stay back!"
But one of the small lambs was standing near something, something he could not see clearly.
The shepherd approached cautiously, then bent down slightly. The lamb was licking the face of a child. A small child, his body covered in mud, his clothes torn, as though the river had just spat him out.
He drew closer and placed his ear upon the child's chest.
Then his eyes widened. The heart was beating, strongly. But with a strange rhythm. A beat he had never heard before.
And the child was reborn.