ã€ŠBeyond The Weathered Veilã€‹


 Chapter 1 |Tarkan|Turukhan, Sea of Reeds|

    The air was bitter cold biting at his nose every time he breathed in. The fog was so dense he could hardly see beyond his own nose and the wind that blew threatened to unseat him from his saddle. Some whispered it was an omen of what this day held for the three of them today but Tarkan didn¡¯t mind the empty words. Seventeen years of waiting was over now and their moment lay in front of them. The land the ceremony was done on had been disallowed for Tarkan all these years but now he could come there at last. Tarkan had begged to go to the Sea of Reeds for years, but every answer had been a curt "no" that held a locked door of secrets. Now, the weight of those unanswered questions pressed on him. He clenched his jaw, the memory of his burning village and the scavengers'' chilling laughter a fresh wound in his mind. The ceremony promised answers, a chance to finally understand...and maybe, just maybe, a sliver of vengeance.

    Scavengers were cruel beings he wished plague upon. Hardly even looking like humans anymore these creatures would enter entire kingdoms only to leave them toppling. They took the men and paraded their manhood on their necks and hands gleefully while they took the sanity of women only using them as they pleased. The children were offered to their Gods for such ¡®blissful¡¯ fun. A ¡®X¡¯ would be drawn on the children with steel only to have them gone the next day. Derya had told him their God descended upon Earth to take it.

    ¡°That''s the only moment you can kill it.¡± Tarkan spat at the story, kicking his horse out of anger. Tarkan wished he could wage war upon every single one. Sometimes he imagined himself gathering his own forces and marching towards the nearest scavenger camp and burning it to the ground while he watched from afar. Not so far that he couldn¡¯t hear their hideous screams. It had been his only dream since five years ago when their walls had crumbled since the first time they stood around his village.

    His horse went faster passing the figures at his sides. Maybe a shout had come behind him but Tarkan didn¡¯t bother to check. He trotted up next to another horse far more decorated than his own. Upon it rode his Shah, the leader of his Household and their Kingdom, Hajr. At first glance it was easy to tell he was not a full blooded Altan. His skin was red and his hair was long unlike the shorter, more unkempt hair of the Altan men. His eyes were more pulled back and his eyes mirrored Tarkan¡¯s own. Blood red.

    ¡°The riding ends soon so I suggest you lessen your grip upon your horse. Your knuckles turn whiter than the nomad¡¯s snow.¡± Hajr¡¯s words did make him loosen his hard grip. His knuckles were indeed white but Tarkan didn¡¯t know if that was from the cold or the excitement he felt.

    ¡°How much is truly left, do you know? I may go ahead to see if you need me to.¡± Tarkan suggested carefully.

    ¡°"Curb your impatience, boy. There''s a time for a hound to strain at the leash, and a time to lie quiet in the kennel." His voice was a low rumble, like stones shifting in a dry riverbed. Annoyed at Hajr¡¯s dismissal, Tarkan tried not to look so stupid even though he knew no one could see him. He slowed his horse down hoping to talk with someone himself but he found solace in no one. Every man¡¯s lips were tied with a rope it seemed. It didn¡¯t matter anyway. They had arrived at last.

    The fog seemed to clear up as Tarkan dismounted from his horse revealing the reeds clearly at last. The wind whispered through the tattered reeds, each stalk a skeletal finger scraping against his legs. He imagined the scavengers, their eyes like glowing embers in the gloom, their raspy voices echoing in the hollow stalks. Dimer¡¯s firm hand landed upon his shoulder and Tarkan felt an unexplainable shiver go down his side but Derya¡¯s reassuring smile on his right made him feel better.

    ¡°Tarkan, Derya, Dimer. Come here and make your prayers to the Lion Stone.¡± Kadir¡¯s voice called for them from the fog and it was a task in itself trying to locate them. They did soon enough and were met with a black rock with obvious slashes of claws tainting it clearly. Not a shred of moss appeared to grow on the stone and in truth it seemed to have blackened the earth around it. Tarkan hesitantly held out a hand and he paused for a moment unsure of what prayer he could make. Derya¡¯s reassuring hand went over his and she placed it for him.

    "What will you ask for?" she inquired. Tarkan shook his head knowing it was useless to explain anything to her.

    ¡°An untold prayer is a more accepted one.¡± He told her. She nodded at him but cast her eyes down before placing a hand on the stone herself. Dimer sat down on his left and winked at Tarkan before turning his attention to Hajr who stood on the other side of the rock.

    ¡°Seventeen years etched lines upon your faces no children as yourselves should bear. Now you are no longer children, but men in front of the Gods. Your lines tell of your will and strength and Gods be witness you three are that.¡± He reached out and placed a weathered hand on the Lion Stone, his touch sending a tremor through the ground. Each of them had their right hand on the stone and suddenly Tarkan felt his hand seem to freeze. It numbed so quickly that he didn¡¯t even know if he could move it but he didn¡¯t dare move it. Hajr¡¯s eyes narrowed at them as if waiting for them to pull back but none of them did. Hajr''s voice boomed, echoing through the desolate landscape. ¡°We stand before the Lion Stone, marked by time and etched by trials. Seventeen years have passed since we last gathered here, yet the spirit of the Lion-Man burns bright within us. He who walked the line between beast and man, who embodied courage and resilience.¡± Tarkan felt a warmth spread through his hand, chasing away the numbness. He glanced at Derya and Dimer, their faces etched with concentration. ¡°Tonight, we honor his legacy. We ask not for power, nor for riches, but for the strength to carry the mark he bestowed upon our ancestors.¡± A faint tremor shook the ground again, and a low rumbling sound filled the air.¡°The mark of the Lion-Man, a reminder that we are not merely flesh and bone, but inheritors of a warrior spirit. A spirit that demands courage in the face of fear, and unwavering resolve in the face of hardship.¡± Hajr''s voice softened slightly. ¡°May the Lion-Man guide your steps, may his roar echo in your hearts, and may his mark forever bind you to a legacy of strength.¡± The tremor subsided, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Tarkan slowly lifted his hand and realized it was stained black. A quick glance at his friends told him the same.

    A heartbeat passed, the black stain on Derya''s hand seeming to writhe and pulse for a fleeting moment. Then, as swiftly as the fog had descended, it lifted. The mist thinned, revealing the desolate landscape stretching far and wide. On Derya''s palm, where the stain had been, a new mark glowed with an inner light. It resembled a sun, its rays etched into her flesh with an unnatural brilliance.

    Hajr''s gaze, sharp as a hawk''s, darted to the mark. A flicker of unease crossed his weathered face, a change Tarkan barely noticed in the periphery of his own astonishment. Even Kadir, ever stoic, seemed to stiffen in surprise. Tarkan, his hand still slick with the black stain of the stone, could only stare, a knot of questions forming in his gut.

    ¡°We had heard whispers of such a phenomenon, tales spun by firelight in our youth, when blood ran hot and reason was a fickle beast. But those were stories for beardless boys, and long years had passed since we last dared believe them true.¡± Kadir¡¯s statement confused Tarkan even more and he got up not understanding anything that was happening.

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    No whisper of the ritual''s purpose had ever graced his ears, no hint of what trials it might hold. Tarkan had envisioned a simple rite, a touch upon the stone and perhaps a surge of strength coursing through his veins. Instead, a different truth had unfolded. His own hand, and Dimer''s beside it, bore the mark of the blackened stone, a grim echo of the ceremony''s touch. Derya, however, stood apart. Where the mark had marred Tarkan and his friend, a strange sigil, a sun etched upon her palm, glowed with an unsettling brilliance.He whirled towards Hajr, his voice tight with bewilderment.

    "What... what has happened here, Shah? Why is Derya different?" Dimer furrowed his brow confused just as Tarkan was.

    "Shah. What is the meaning of this?" Even Derya, usually composed, couldn''t hide the confusion clouding her eyes. She raised her hand, the strange sun sigil pulsing with an inner light, and looked at Hajr with a silent plea for explanation. Kadir, ever watchful, shifted his weight uneasily. The air crackled with unspoken questions, a storm brewing in the silence that followed Tarkan''s outburst.

    "That mark''s a song half-forgotten since our beardless days, Kadir speaks truth there. Why it graces her palm and stains your hands black, that''s beyond me." Hajr stalked towards Derya, his weathered hand snatching hers to examine the mark closely. "The sun climbs higher, and time grows short. We need to get back, make sure our holding isn''t left unguarded." Without a backward glance, he lumbered towards the horses, now clearly visible through the thinning mist. He threw himself onto his saddle, a mask settling over his face. Lost in thought, he spurred his horse onward, leaving them to follow at their own pace.

    Kadir had a sly grin splitting his face as he rode towards him. "A young pup''s eyes are blind to what they ain''t lookin'' for, Tarkan. What you never saw was hidden plain sight, because you never knew to look." He reached up, a grimace twisting his features as he peeled off his glove, revealing a mark of his own. A line carved across his palm, pulsing with a faint brown light, mimicking Derya''s mark. Tarkan sucked in a breath, studying it intently. If even Kadir bore a mark, did that mean his own blackness was a sign of things to come? Perhaps the same fate awaited Dimer.

    Dimer, his voice flat and void of any emotion, "Was your hand ever black like ours, Kadir?" He''d materialized beside Tarkan so silently, it sent a shiver down the young warrior''s spine.

    A weary chuckle escaping his lips. "Ceremonies take different shapes for different folks. Some faint dead away, some feel their flesh burn, some can''t even bring themselves to touch the stone for fear of what it might do." He offered them a wry smile. "This mark, it ain''t for everyone. You ask if I''ve ever seen blackness like that on hands before? No, I haven''t. Doubt Hajr has either, but time has a way of revealin'' secrets, one way or another."

    "Time buries secrets as deep as it reveals them, maybe deeper." Dimer said with a bitter edge to his voice. Tarkan¡¯s back itched unusually around Dimer. Tarkan felt a prickle crawl up his spine as Dimer rode beside him. It wasn''t that long ago they''d been sharing jokes over the dinner table, yet now... there was something different about him. Not fear, exactly, but an unsettling disquiet. It was like Dimer carried an invisible blade, sharp and cold, pointed straight at him.

    "What does your mark do, Kadir?" Derya chirped, her voice breaking the tense silence. Kadir stowed his glove back on, his face a mask once more.

    "A marked man''s secrets are his own, little one. Perhaps the battlefield will reveal them, though the gods forbid it comes to that." He nudged his horse, urging it to catch up with Hajr''s swiftly retreating form. Dimer scoffed.

    "More secrets locked away from us, then." Tarkan shared Dimer''s annoyance. All this secrecy felt like a wall, shutting them out. Maybe they''d messed up the ceremony somehow, and that''s why their hands were stained black. He felt no power himself, and he wondered if Dimer felt the same emptiness.

    "They''re older, Tarkan," Derya said softly, her words a beacon in the gloom of his thoughts.

    "We can wait. Kadir said time reveals all, but surely a little effort on our part wouldn''t hurt, would it? After all, a mountain doesn''t become a canyon without the relentless bite of the sea, even if the sun rises and sets each day." She smiled warmly at him, her wisdom a welcome balm. Tarkan wished his mark would do something, anything, instead of sitting stubbornly on his hand. He''d hoped the ceremony would be a step closer to the throne, a path towards vengeance. Now, it felt like a detour, leading them deeper into a labyrinth of secrets. The weight of the unknown pressed down on him, a wearying burden.

    A memory surfaced, a fragment from his childhood. Amaya singing a lullaby to soothe his fear of the moon. He''d dreamed of the moon crushing their home, a monstrous eye in the night sky. Amaya''s voice, a gentle murmur, had chased away the nightmares. The lullaby was short, but it spoke of their ancestor, Altan, the uniter, who wielded the moon''s power to vanquish evil. Tarkan would always imagine himself doing the same, righting wrongs and bringing justice. Now, staring at the endless horizon, he wondered if that dream, like the lullaby, was just a comforting fantasy.

    Dimer rode up next to Tarkan looking distant. ¡°Do you think we¡¯ll see Striders out here? I hoped we¡¯d see one while coming but now I hope we see one on our return. Otherwise only Gods will know the next time we can see them.¡± Tarkan thought about the stories he heard of the men and women who traveled in the Sea of Reeds. Merchants brought stories of these giant rock beings. They said they walked on all fours and a single leg was as tall as a small mountain. They said it was covered in moss and carried entire kingdoms on their back.

    Tarkan blinked, momentarily pulled from his thoughts by Derya''s question. "Striders, huh? Never seen one myself, but the stories..." He trailed off, the memory of the black stain on his hand a nagging itch.  "They say they''re massive, like walking mountains covered in moss. Some even say they carry whole kingdoms on their backs."

    Derya''s eyes gleamed with a spark of wonder. "Imagine! A city that moves with you, wherever you go."

    "More like a target the size of a mountain for the Scavengers," Dimer muttered, his voice laced with a bitterness that surprised Tarkan. The comment hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the harsh reality that awaited them beyond the desolate landscape. Tarkan nudged his horse forward, the weight of the black mark and Derya''s strange symbol pressing down on him.

    "One day we will end them," Tarkan said, more to reassure himself than anyone else. "Right now, we focus on getting back." They rode on in a tense silence, the vastness of the Sea of Reeds stretching out before them like a canvas painted in shades of gray. The wind whispered through the reeds, a mournful song that seemed to echo Tarkan''s own unease. Hours bled into one another as they rode. The sun climbed its peak, then began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and red. Just as fatigue started to gnaw at Tarkan''s resolve, a flicker of movement in the distance caught his eye. He squinted, his heart pounding in his chest.

    A dark shape, colossal in size, rose from the horizon. It moved with a slow, deliberate grace, its form vaguely familiar despite its immense size.

    "Derya," Tarkan breathed, nudging his horse closer to hers. "Look!" Derya followed his gaze, her eyes widening in awe.

    "Is that...?" "A Strider," Dimer finished, a hint of grudging respect in his voice. The colossal being continued its lumbering gait across the horizon, a silent testament to a forgotten age. As the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape, the Strider faded from sight. Tarkan didn¡¯t think he had seen anything larger in his life. It seemed to tower over the clouds itself. With each faint step it took it sent tremors all across the earth as if alerting everyone it was there.

    An uneasy feeling within Tarkan told him that Stoneland Strider would be the last he saw in a long time.

 Chapter 2|Sylas|Turukhan, Sea of Reeds, Shattered Realms|

    Sylas trudged through the unforgiving expanse of the Shattered Lands. Reeds, as tall as a man and sharp as knives, sliced at his worn cloak with every step. The relentless sun beat down, turning his throat to sandpaper and his vision hazy. He squinted at the endless green horizon, a monotonous tapestry that seemed to mock him with its lack of direction. The first year had been a desperate scramble for survival. Hunger gnawed at his belly, a constant companion. Every rustle in the reeds sent a jolt of fear through him, the only company these whispering stalks and the occasional scavenger scuttling on its many limbs.

    But slowly, as time went on in the reeds, a strange resilience bloomed within him. He learned to read the subtle whispers of the wind, to find hidden pockets of rainwater and the occasional scuttling lizard. Now, in the second year of his exile, a grudging respect had formed between him and the Shattered Lands. He¡¯d discovered a twisted beauty in this almost desert, a solace in the endless expanse of sky. At night, under a canopy of countless stars, he¡¯d sit by his crackling fire, a solitary ember in the vastness.

    He¡¯d trace constellations unseen from his old life, wondering what secrets they held. A flicker of movement caught his eye, a glint of metal in the distance. His heart hammered against his ribs. Was it another scavenger, or perhaps something¡­ else?

    Sylas kicked dirt over the fire and walked over to where his two curved greatswords stood slammed into the ground. Their runes seemed to shine underneath the moon light with the fur connected at the edge between the hilt and blade letting off an iridescent gray light as well. He carefully lifted his blades one on each hand and walked to where he had seen the metal. Sylas cursed under his breath. Sellswords. He''d been careful to avoid them, clinging to the desolate stretches of the Shattered Lands where even scavengers wouldn''t dare.

    Now, the stench of cooking meat and the raucous laughter of men shattered the silence. He crept deeper into the reeds, the sharp stalks whispering against his cloak. Panic clawed at his throat. How had he missed their camp? Was it the false comfort of familiarity that clouded his senses? Suddenly, a figure loomed before him. Before the man could speak, Sylas lashed out with his swords. A spray of crimson stained the reeds as the man crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide with betrayal. A guttural roar erupted behind him.

    Sylas spun, heart hammering against his ribs. The camp was in chaos, sellswords scrambling for their weapons. He didn''t wait. Spittle flew from his lips as he tore through the reeds, the sharp edges slicing at his exposed skin. He ignored the pain, the desperate need to escape driving him forward. He burst into his makeshift camp, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He gripped his swords, their familiar weight a small comfort in the face of overwhelming odds. But the figures emerging from the reeds weren''t the hardened sellswords he''d expected. He saw boys who seemed to barely be past their namedays and a girl who looked like she couldn¡¯t be older than sixteen.

    The ragged children, barely past their teens, surrounded him, their makeshift swords held high. One, his face a web of scars, a single black eye staring accusingly at Sylas, grinned with a malice that sent shivers down the sellsword''s spine.

    "Our leader wants you," he rasped, his voice raw like a crow''s. "And what Aerith wants, Aerith gets." The air hung heavy with the stench of woodsmoke and fear, a stark contrast to the clean, harsh winds of the open Shattered Lands. Sylas cursed himself. These weren''t hardened sellswords, but barely more than children, their fear a tangible presence in the air. But their leader, this ''Aerith,'' who was he?

    "Tell your leader I have no quarrel with him," Sylas said, his voice gruff but laced with a hint of caution. "Let me pass, and there will be no bloodshed." They exchanged nervous glances, the bravado fading from their faces. The girl, the one with the sensible eyes, rolled her own when the man with the missing eye launched into a boastful speech about their skills.

    "Aerith will deal with this," she said, her voice small but firm. The one-eyed boy hissed at her, his pride wounded. "We''ll handle him. Let him see what we can do!" His voice held an edge of desperation that made Sylas narrow his eyes. These weren''t soldiers, but a ragtag band led by someone called Aerith. Realizing these people barely his own age weren¡¯t going to leave him so easily he dashed forward faster than the blink of an eye and brought down his swords again, beheading the one eyed man in an instant.

    ¡°You bastard!¡± The one with the stupid haircut screamed. Sylas spun out of his reach and instead caught his blade with his own and slammed him down onto the floor. Sylas stepped on the person¡¯s face and turned to the others. He realized in the moment of frey the girl had run off, probably to go get this man Aerith but Sylas feared him none. They all looked at him worry etched in their features. One of them dropped their sword and cried out falling on his knees.

    Pathetic.

    Amused, Sylas lifted his sword, drawing it over the neck of the person he stepped on. He heard them whimper and when he brought his sword down on him he knew he never would again. One of the men fainted at the sight. Sylas felt almost guilty about what he had done. These were hardly men who had seen battles. These were at most orphans grouped together by foolishness most likely caused by that man Aerith who was using them. Life could be so unfair sometimes it felt heavy on Sylas¡¯s heart.

    ¡°My friend, may you lower your sword?¡± Sylas lashed out at the man immediately, not listening to him. He didn¡¯t understand how he had appeared beside him so quietly uncaught by Sylas¡¯s honed senses and he didn¡¯t want to pay a price to know. He brought his swords from either side of the man but he easily jumped up using Sylas¡¯s sword to launch himself to the other side to safety. The man had long red hair with matching blood red eyes. A streak of white went through his hair and he couldn¡¯t understand if it were from age or terrible hair choice.

    A single look on his face though made him understand this person was hardly older than Sylas. Maybe younger. He had handsome features and his clothes seemed to be better than the people around him. He gave Sylas a charming smile holding out his hand.

    ¡°I am Aerith, captain of this sellsword company you¡¯re defacing,¡± the man rumbled. His voice was smooth as oiled leather, but Sylas glimpsed steel beneath, the glint of a well-honed threat. Sylas ignored the hand offered in greeting, a snort escaping his lips.

    "Tell your bloody fools not to tangle with a viper, or it''ll be the last dance they ever take." He kept his gaze locked on the man, searching for any sign of weakness. Aerith chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down Sylas'' spine despite the desert heat.

    "Why such haste, friend? Can''t a warrior enjoy the moonlight with another? Share a flagon of wine, perhaps?" His eyes, impossibly blue under the twin moons, held a gleam that flickered between amusement and something more dangerous. Sylas scoffed.

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    "Tea and gossip with a stranger under your damned stars? I wouldn''t be caught dead with a spindle, never mind a cup." The amusement in Aerith''s eyes vanished like a snuffed candle but only for a moment making Sylas second-guess himself. A faint scar, pale as moonlight, traced a jagged line across his cheek.

    "Think not of it as weakness, friend," he said, his voice straining kindness. "A seasoned warrior knows when to choose his battles." He gestured with a languid grace that belied the brutal falchion strapped at his hip. Sylas spat on the sand.

    "Some warriors trust no one, not even the ground they walk on. Out here, in this wasteland where the very reeds cut, a blade finds its sheath only over a dead man''s chest." A low growl rumbled from one of the sellswords.

    "Aerith, be careful." Sylas saw a flicker of something cold in the man''s eyes before he turned on his own underling. A swift, practiced motion ¨C and a strangled gasp on all of them. All of his aggressors crumpled, hands reaching for the bloody gash at their throats. Just as the girl arrived seeming to have their whole camp at her back. They watched, faces grim and unreadable. Aerith clapped his hands, a chillingly casual gesture.

    "A wise reminder, friend," he said, his voice smooth as oiled steel. "The weak cling to life with desperate fingers, but strength demands a sharper edge.." He approached Sylas, hand outstretched once more. "Forgive my oversight. You never introduced yourself." The smile on Aerith''s face seemed genuine, yet Sylas couldn''t shake the memory of the slain man''s lifeless eyes.

    "No name," he lied, meeting the leader''s gaze. Aerith''s eyes narrowed for a fleeting moment, then a shrug. "Then a name you shall have, if you choose to join me." A ripple of amusement passed through the crowd of sellswords, some hands tightening on sword hilts. Aerith held up a hand, silencing them. "Respect is not a coin to be demanded," he said, his voice low. "It''s earned, a lesson learned through blood and hardship. A lesson that brought me to lead this company." Sylas felt a surge of anger.

    "I have no interest in your coin or your company. I fight for myself, not with a pack at my back. I have never needed one and I never will." He lunged forward, blade flashing, but Aerith danced away with a laugh, a predator toying with its prey. The man''s smile turned cold, a cunning glint replacing the charm in his eyes.

    "There''s always a bigger fish, is that what you want to hear?" The moonlight seemed to intensify around him, glinting off his pupils like twin flames. Sylas felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine. No one had ever bested him in speed, not yet. He wouldn''t be here, whole and undefeated, if they had. A flicker of shame sparked in his gut, and he steeled himself, shoving down any sliver of respect that threatened to rise. "Prove yourself," the man challenged, his voice warm. "Best me, and you walk away. Lose..." He leaned closer, the fire in his eyes so wild he thought it might burn him. "You''ll serve as my blade, an extension of my will." Sylas understood the man''s magnetism. He saw it in the way the sellswords hung on his every word. A smirk twisted his lips. With a clatter that echoed in the tense silence, he slammed his swords hilt-deep into the ground. The challenge had been laid down.

    A grudging respect flickered in Sylas'' eyes as he met Aerith''s gaze. This man was unlike any opponent he''d faced. He gripped Aerith''s hand in a firm shake, accepting his proposal.

    "Vyla," Aerith called out, his voice steady. "See to the duel." Vyla acknowledged him with a curt nod, her green eyes lingering on Sylas for a moment. Was that a flicker of sympathy he saw there? Aerith strode to the opposite side of the clearing, mirrored by Sylas. Confidence radiated from him, fueled by countless past victories. He''d seen more battles than he could count, felt the sting of steel more times than he cared to remember. This wouldn''t be different.

    Aerith drew his falchion, the moonlight seemingly trapped within its polished surface. The metal itself was a curiosity ¨C unlike anything Sylas had encountered before. Thin, almost delicate, yet he knew a skilled warrior wouldn''t choose a weapon that would break easily. Aerith was a puzzle, a cold calculation wrapped in an aura of charisma. But brute strength would prevail. One swing of his own blade could shatter that fancy weapon, maybe even end the fight then and there. Vyla''s voice cut through the tension.

    "Ready yourselves." Her hand rose, then fell with a decisive snap. The duel had begun.

    Aerith was a blur of motion, his speed defying what Sylas thought possible. A frustrated snarl escaped Sylas'' lips as his attack landed on empty air. He spun, blades flashing, but Aerith was already gone, leaping over him with an almost inhuman agility. A searing pain erupted across Sylas'' cheek.

    He hadn''t felt the sting of a blade in years, and the sight of his own blood sent a surge of primal anger coursing through him. He slammed his swords into the ground, using the leverage to launch a spinning kick aimed at Aerith''s face. The kick missed by a hair''s breadth, and with a frustrated roar, Sylas brought his swords crashing down. T

    hey met only empty ground. Aerith reappeared like a phantom, his blade flashing towards Sylas'' throat. This time, Sylas barely managed to deflect it. Another desperate kick, another dodge. He lunged forward, swords outstretched, only to find Aerith a step ahead. Landing in a roll, Sylas acknowledged the gnawing truth. Anger clouded his judgment, making him predictable. He had to regain control.

    Aerith, a smirk playing on his lips, found himself toe-to-toe with Sylas'' massive swords. He tapped the hilt of one with a casual flick of his fingers.

    "An impressive weapon," he remarked, his voice laced with amusement. The touch ignited a fresh wave of fury in Sylas. With a roar that shook the very ground, he launched into a flurry of punches and kicks, his movements faster than ever before. Yet, Aerith weaved through the onslaught with effortless grace, dodging every blow without breaking a sweat. Sylas'' rage, however, proved to be his undoing. Blinded by anger, he left himself open. Aerith didn''t need a killing blow. A swift foot swept out from under Sylas, sending him crashing to the ground. Before Sylas could scramble back up, the cold press of steel found its mark at his throat. The fight was over.

    Sylas spat a curse under his breath as cheers erupted around him. Defeat was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew resistance was pointless. He was bound to this man''s company, for better or worse. Vyla''s declaration of Aerith''s victory grated on him, a reminder of his own shortcomings. He''d never lost before. Never. Aerith sheathed his sword and offered a hand to help Sylas rise. Taking the hand of an opponent was a foreign gesture, a sign of begrudging respect. Years of self-reliance had hardened him, but facing this man, a strange vulnerability surfaced. There was something about Aerith, perhaps his confidence or his easy smile. It drew people in, even a hardened warrior like Sylas. A flicker of amusement, not mockery,for the battle danced in Aerith''s eyes. And for the first time in a long time, Sylas found himself returning the smile. The anger that had consumed him moments ago started to ebb away.

    Aerith''s smile widened, infectious as ever. "You''ll join us, then? Ride by my side. You''ve piqued my interest, a feat not many achieve." He placed a hand on Sylas'' shoulder, and this time, Sylas didn''t flinch.

    "Perhaps," Sylas conceded, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "Seems I have little choice at the moment." Aerith barked a laugh, a booming sound that echoed across the clearing. He turned and called out to Vyra.

    "Find our newfound friend a worthy steed, Vyra. No more shall he wear out his boots!" Vyra acknowledged the order with a curt nod and disappeared into the bustle of the camp. Aerith gestured towards a nearby group of sellswords. "Let them take care of your blades for now," he said. ¡°You no longer must carry them in your arms, for now, you have a pack at your back, friend." Aerith placed an arm around Sylas'' shoulder, a gesture that felt oddly familiar despite the circumstances.

    As they began to walk, Aerith''s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ah, yes, your name. I promised you one, didn''t I? Well, from this day forward, you shall be known as Kor''zil.¡± The name sounded odd to Sylas but he didn¡¯t mind. It warmed his heart in fact, to hear his new name. He liked it, he decided.

 Chapter 3|Aelar Vaellyn Second of his Name|Niran, The City of a Thousand Doors

    Aelar stood upon the shore of Niran, the dying sun painting the western sky in hues of amethyst and fire. The tang of salt stung his nostrils, a welcome sensation after endless leagues upon the churning sea. Here, his boots sank into the yielding sand, a luxury denied him on the rocking deck of a ship. This was the land, the soil that birthed his ancestors, and a smile, bittersweet yet fierce, tugged at his lips. Memories, like phantoms stirred by a mournful wind, whispered of his mother''s voice. She spoke of the Shattered Realms, these very lands where he stood. Legends spun tales of a singular Rune, a sigil of unity that bound the continents together. But the malice of the First Ones, so the stories went, fractured the Rune, scattering its shards across the face of the world. Each fragment, it was said, tore a continent from the whole, though whispers hinted at a darker truth.

    The legends claimed only a being of immense power, a First One, could shatter such a Rune. Yet, the tales also spoke of Altan the False God. Aelar clenched his fist around a handful of sand, the gritty grains a good reminder he wasn¡¯t the Lost Prince any longer. The truth, like the shattered Rune, lay in pieces. Whether the legends held merit mattered little; the secret of how the Rune was broken lay buried deep within time, a truth best left undisturbed. With a sigh, he turned from the dying light, a king uncrowned with a kingdom in ruins. Duty, a cold hand clutching at his heart, urged him onward. He would relish this solace, this communion with the land, when the battles were won and the dust settled. But for now, there was work to be done. He walked towards the skeletal remains of the castle, a jagged silhouette against the star-strewn indigo canvas. Within those crumbling walls, his companions lay in wait, their loyalty as constant as the northern stars. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but Aelar, heir to a shattered legacy, would reclaim what was rightfully his.

    The castle loomed before Aelar, a witness to a bygone era. Towers, once kissed by the sun, speared skyward, their tips obscured by wisps of cloud. Legends whispered of a time when the castle glittered with an abundance of gold, a treasure trove that no invader could fully deplete. Raiders, lured by tales of endless riches, had descended upon the kingdom like vultures. Yet, the gold always seemed to replenish itself, a source of wonder and speculation. But whispers turned to screams as a monstrous storm, conjured by the wrath of the Nirans, swallowed the last wave of plunderers whole. Since that fateful day, the castle had stood silent, undisturbed. It would look beautiful once rebuilt and Aelar already imagined it finished. One day he would raise his children here. His children would run across this shore in joy and happiness without the fear of the sea or men.

    "Where are you walking to?" A calm voice cut through Aelar''s thoughts. He turned to find Zayn, his bastard brother, standing beside him. Their contrasting appearances - Aelar''s silver hair against Zayn''s dark, red eyes against blue - were a constant reminder of their shared lineage.

    "Just heading to meet Rhea and Kamil," Aelar replied. "What brings you out for a stroll?" Zayn''s white robe, a symbol of his birthright, fell above his ankles. He never seemed to mind the informality, unlike some others. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

    "Just enjoying a rare moment by the sea. Not exactly something I''ve had many of, have I?" Aelar acknowledged the truth in his brother''s words.

    "We''ll have plenty of walks together in the future, but you know we can''t waste any time right now." Zayn nodded curtly, his gaze drifting towards the horizon. Aelar often wondered what went on behind those quiet eyes, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

    "Let me tag along," Zayn offered. "You might need someone to keep you grounded when you get lost in your grand pronouncements." Aelar couldn''t help but let out a chuckle. Despite their differences, there was a camaraderie between them. Perhaps it was the shared burden of their destiny, or maybe a deeper, unspoken bond.

    "Alright, come on then," Aelar said, gesturing towards the path. "But don''t expect me to be swayed by your witty jabs."

    Zayn''s smile widened, a flicker of something more in his eyes. "Wouldn''t dream of it, your Highness."

    "Indeed," Zayn agreed, his voice low. They walked side-by-side through the castle ruins, the path leading towards their hidden camp on the other side. This location offered some protection, as Arav had warned him about the vigil of the nearby people. They had stood upon their towers for thousands of years not letting their ancestors pass until their eventual demise. They seemed to have never left their vigil, always on the watch.

    News of their arrival would spread quickly, and unwanted visitors were likely on the horizon. Aelar wouldn''t allow anyone to disrespect his land or its people. The trespass had already lasted millennia, and it was time to establish a new way of existing. Aelar would never let the past mistakes of history ever be repeated again, it was his duty from birth. It was what he had been groomed into believing he would do.

    "A sparrow steal your thoughts?" Zayn asked playfully. Aelar chuckled, shaking off his introspection.

    "Just pondering the foreigners," he admitted. "Their very presence here on my land...it grates on me." Zayn''s brow furrowed slightly.

    "Our land, you mean?" Aelar stumbled slightly over the words. "Right, of course. Our land." He repeated it firmly, hoping he understood it was just a slip up. Zayn offered a sly smile.

    "You should smile more often, Aelar. It suits you. A flash of those teeth at the foreigners, and they''d be bowing before you in no time." Aelar found the idea amusing.

    "I think yours would have that effect, too. Rhea says my smile is a bit...predatory." Zayn rolled his eyes, but his grin remained.

    "She just teases you. You know how she is." His expression grew more serious. "Remember the old wisdom, Aelar: Character is the greatest leader.¡± Aelar considered his words, a remembrance to something someone had told him before but he couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on it.

    Aelar scoffed at Zayn''s remark, dismissing it with a dismissive gesture. Silence fell between them as they traversed the ruined castle and kingdom, their steps echoing amidst the remnants of their ancestors. The only treasures they found were scattered bits of gold, but they continued their search with dogged determination. In the distance, Zayn spotted a weathered portrait. As Aelar reached for it, the fragile material crumbled in his grasp. Frustration flickered in his eyes. Aelar wondered who the portrait had once shown.

    Some sections of the ruins seemed to swallow the moonlight, radiating an unsettling darkness. Aelar instinctively steered clear, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine. It felt strange, almost surreal, to be walking amongst the final resting places of his ancestors. Yet a thrill coursed through him. Millennia had passed since their people set foot on these shores so why could he not enjoy it? He vowed silently that one day, all Niranians would return to claim their birthright, but the timing remained, shrouded in mystery.

    As they neared the camp, the distant glow of lanterns pierced the night. Aelar blinked, surprised to see the first hints of dawn painting the horizon. The walk had felt much shorter in his mind''s eye. A joyous shout echoed from the ruins ahead. Aelar grinned, recognizing his younger sister''s voice. Aralia burst out from the shadows, throwing herself into a hug. He returned the embrace warmly. When she saw Zayn, she included him with another hug.

    "We were just watching the sunset," Aelar said almost apologetically. ¡°We¡¯ve been returning for a while now, it''s a long journey.¡±

    "For a whole day," she said pointedly, "and you didn''t take me with you!" Aelar knelt and patted her head gently. "I promise, we''ll go exploring together soon." Aralia rolled her eyes, unconvinced.

    "You always say that, but then you''re too busy or too tired." A pang of guilt stabbed at Aelar. She was right. He should make more time for her. It was a constant struggle to balance his personal needs with his duty to his people and their mission. But Aralia deserved his attention too. He vowed to find a way to spend more time with his little sister.

    "He does get weary easily," Zayn teased Aralia, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But perhaps I can take you on a short seaside walk later. We could explore the ruins a little further." Aelar appreciated Zayn''s quick thinking. His half-brother always seemed to know how to smooth things over.

    "Hold on a moment," Aelar interjected, a note of caution in his voice. "We need to make sure this place is secure before exploring. It''s been a long time, and we don''t know what dangers might be lurking." Aralia''s disappointment was clear, a small frown creasing her brow. Zayn rose to his feet and gestured towards the camp.

    "Perhaps Aralia and I could take a short walk along the shore for now," he suggested. "You should head back and check on the camp. Makes sense, wouldn''t you agree?" Aelar recognized the wisdom in Zayn''s words.

    "Alright, that sounds good," he conceded. "I''ll catch up with you both later, if I can." He knew deep down it was unlikely, but a pang of guilt flickered within him. He offered his sister a quick kiss on the forehead, the gesture filled with affection. The carefree walk on the shore suddenly felt like a luxury he couldn''t afford.

    Aelar gazed around their camp once more. They hadn¡¯t come with many people, only around ten men. This included him, Rhea, Kamil, Zayn, Feron, Ayrn, and Xafer. His mother had sent them to search for their ancestral homelands a year ago and it had taken a year''s journey to arrive here. It had been difficult being away from all that he had been familiar with all his life but he hoped one day he would find this land more familiar than that one ever was.

    The homeland for the Nirans was special because this was where life had first been borned. Back when all lands were together and connected Niran had been at the center of it a place beaming with life and beauty only to be left in ruins now.

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    Aelar reached the camp to find Rhea waiting for him. Her hair, the color of burnished copper, shimmered in the fading light. She wrapped her arm around him, drawing him into a warm embrace.

    Rhea''s laughter, light and teasing, cut through the twilight as Aelar finally rejoined the camp. "Took your sweet time, did you, my prince?" Aelar, the tension of his internal debate momentarily forgotten, offered her a genuine smile.

    "The beach held a certain charm, though the company could have been livelier."

    "Not all of us have the luxury of aimless strolls, love," Rhea countered, her hand finding his arm. "Some of us have pressing matters to attend to." He squeezed her hand back, a silent apology for his earlier frustration.

    "Fair enough. This," he vowed, "shall be the last such indulgence... for now." A flicker of amusement danced in her eyes.

    "One can only hope, Your Highness." A sudden frown creased his brow.

    "Speaking of pressing matters, where''s Kamil? We need to discuss these... potential guests." He cast a searching glance around the camp. As if sensing his unspoken question, Rhea supplied the answer.

    "Kamil''s conferring with Feron and Ayrn about potential repairs for the ruins. They just ventured inside a moment ago, actually."

    Aelar''s frown deepened. "Without a word?"

    Rhea''s touch gentled. "Perhaps they felt the urgency of the task. They''ll be back shortly, no doubt."

    ¡°They should¡¯ve waited for my arrival.¡± He muttered almost as if to himself. It pricked him that they would go without waiting for him but he knew he was no king yet. The title would soon arrive to him and then he would be The Lord of Realms.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure they know what they¡¯re doing,¡± Rhea said, her eyes searching his. Aelar felt her gaze on him like a hawk but he knew they had to wait.

    ¡°Not now,¡± he replied, gently pulling her hand from his arm. ¡°We still have time.¡± Her eyes dropped, and she turned away. They were betrothed, destined to be husband and wife, king and queen, but that day was not yet upon them. Aelar had yet to take the crown of his people, a moment that awaited the arrival of his mother, the Regent.

    In a moon, she would place the ancient crown upon his head, and he would at last be king. Only then could the hunt for the Crown of Realms begin. His conquest would be swift and unyielding, crushing anyone who stood in his way without a second thought. Those who swore allegiance to him would be spared but relegated to lives of subservience. Aelar could already picture the aftermath of his battles, the smoldering ruins over which he would stand victorious. Flames would consume all in his path, and he would survey the destruction from atop his dragon, a triumphant smile playing on his lips.

    Once he got his crown he would be gifted with the mark of flames his king ancestors had all worn. Then he would be given a dragon egg and nurture it with his own flames just like the kings of the past had done but this would be later than they had done it. His ancestors would get their dragon eggs and would keep it with them until they were given the mark. There were rare instances of anyone outside of the king or queen getting dragons like his King ancestor Aelar the Unifier. His sister wives had ridden dragons by his side and aided in his conquests being the only companions he could trust to ride by his side.

    The idea of marrying a family member had always seemed strange to Aelar, but he had accepted it, knowing that it was a longstanding tradition in his family. The Nirans believed in strengthening their bloodline by keeping marriages within the family. So when he was betrothed to Rhea, his older sister, no one was surprised. In fact, they were pleased that she would one day bear his children.

    Rhea''s voice, tight with worry, echoed the unspoken fear that whispered at them all. "What will we do if the foreigners visit us?" she whispered, the word heavy with dread. Before Aelar set sail, his mother, her face etched with concern, had pressed an ancient horn into his hand. A dragon horn, legend said, a relic gifted to their forefather Aelar by Cael the Remaining. A horn that held the power to summon the spirits of dragons long dead, a testament to Niran''s past might. Aelar traced the ridges of the horn, worn smooth by the caress of time. His fingers lingered on the carved scales that coiled around its base.

    Black and twisted, it might have seemed an ugly thing, but to him, it was a treasure beyond comparison. Use it only if you are near the Every-Eye Islands, his mother had warned. And they had, hearts pounding with a mix of terror and awe, as the sky above the islands had filled with the colossal forms of dragons. Aelar could still feel the phantom heat of their fiery breath, hear the echo of their mighty roars. He''d fallen to his knees then, a tear tracing a path down his cheek, as the legendary creatures soared overhead, blotting out the sun and sending a shiver down his spine.

    "There''s time yet," Aelar said, his voice firm despite the doubt that coiled in his gut. "Time for word to reach our people, for Mother to arrive with reinforcements. By then, we''ll be well on our path to strength, safe from whatever these strangers bring." Rhea gave him a strained smile, but the worry remained, a shadow in her eyes. Aelar knew his words were a flimsy shield against the harsh truth. For all the power the dragon horn promised, no Niran had ridden a true dragon in centuries. Theirs was a faded glory, a legend on the wind, and these strangers, whoever they may be, sailed under unknown banners. ¡°And anyways,¡± He said, starting to smile again. ¡°I would never allow them to harm any of us anyways. Not after all this time.¡± Her smile seemed to become more real after that. A sudden burst of frantic movement tore Aelar from his thoughts. He whirled around to see Kamil, Feron, and Ayrn emerging from the trees, their faces etched with terror. Kami, his eyes wide with dread, seized Aelar by the shoulders.

    "Don''t go near the ruins, Aelar! They''re not ours anymore. An unspeakable evil has taken hold there." Aelar bristled, his voice sharp.

    "Explain yourselves clearly. This talk of curses is foolishness." But Kamil only shook his head, his fear palpable. A growing unease gnawed at Aelar. These men were seasoned warriors, not prone to childish panic.

    "You didn''t see it," Feron hissed, his gaze darting nervously. "A wound in the world, reeking of darkness..." His voice trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken. Rhea''s brow furrowed in confusion.

    "A tear in the world?" Even the return of Altan wouldn''t have infused such fear in these men. A cold dread crept down Aelar''s spine. Something was terribly wrong, a truth he could almost grasp at the edges of his perception. The raw terror emanating from them was overwhelming. He met Ayrn''s gaze. His eyes were wide, a stark contrast to their normal reservedness.

    ¡°Take me to this place,¡± Aelar commanded. Kamil shook his head, too afraid to speak. Feron¡¯s silence spoke louder, and even when Aelar grabbed him by the shoulders and demanded again, Kamil only pushed off his hands, trembling like a child. Aelar turned to Ayrn.

    ¡°Take me to this ¡®tear¡¯ you speak of,¡± he said, not as a prince, but with the authority of a king. Yet Ayrn, too, resisted.

    ¡°No human is meant to see that, Aelar. We¡¯re not supposed to go there. We shouldn¡¯t even stay here knowing it¡¯s there.¡± He rubbed his temples, his voice betraying a hint of fear. ¡°It was nothing like you¡¯ve ever seen. It reeked of evil, otherworldly. It couldn¡¯t have been from this world.¡± Ayrn¡¯s eyes widened as he spoke, his voice trembling.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what scared us more,¡± Feron added tentatively. Rhea¡¯s narrowed eyes fixed on him, but Feron could only shake his head, afraid.

    ¡°We must leave, Aelar. This is no longer our home. Perhaps it once was, but that was thousands of years ago,¡± Ayrn insisted, shaking his head. Aelar slapped him across the face. Ayrn didn¡¯t fall back or cry out; he simply touched his cheek where Aelar had struck him, the mark of his hand clearly visible. Rhea looked at him in shock, and the fear in Feron and Kamil¡¯s eyes faded into wary defiance.

    ¡°We will go nowhere,¡± Aelar hissed, fury shaking him. The mere suggestion of abandoning all they had worked for was absurd. This was his home. It had always been the home of his ancestors, and it would remain his. He couldn¡¯t accept defeat to such foolishness. Ayrn eyed him coldly, his gaze like chips of ice.

    ¡°Aelar, you should calm yourself. Come, splash some water on your face,¡± Rhea urged, guiding him away hurriedly. He followed her, the weight of his anger heavy on his shoulders. They reached a small basin filled with cool, clear water. Aelar dipped his hands into it, the cold seeping into his skin and sending a shiver up his spine. He splashed his face, the shock of the water momentarily clearing his mind.

    ¡°Listen to them, Aelar,¡± Rhea said softly, her voice a balm to his fury. ¡°They are scared for a reason. We must understand what we are dealing with before we make any decisions.¡± Aelar met her gaze, his breath steadying.

    ¡°You think I am wrong?¡±

    ¡°I think you are strong, but strength alone will not guide us through this. We need wisdom, and we need to listen to those who have seen this ¡®tear.¡¯¡± Rhea¡¯s eyes were filled with concern. Aelar sighed, looking back at the group. Feron and Kamil still looked wary, while Ayrn¡¯s gaze was still cold and perhaps fury was what lit them.

    ¡°What would you have me do, then?¡± Aelar asked, his voice softer, though the edge of authority remained.

    ¡°Talk to them. Understand their fears. And if it is truly as dangerous as they say, perhaps we can find a way to confront it together. Abandoning our home is not an option, but neither is blind defiance.¡± Rhea¡¯s hand rested on his arm, grounding him. Aelar nodded, returning to the group. He stood tall, his resolve tempered by the counsel of his betrothed.

    ¡°Speak,¡± he commanded, though the edge of his earlier fury was gone. ¡°Tell me more of what you saw..¡± Ayrn stepped forward, still rubbing his cheek.

    ¡°It was a rift, like the world itself was torn open. Shadows moved within it, and a coldness I¡¯ve never felt before. It was as if the very essence of evil was seeping through. We are not meant to go near it, let alone confront it unprepared.¡±

    ¡°And yet, we must,¡± Aelar said firmly. ¡°This is our home. We will not flee from it. We will find a way to seal this tear, or to understand it at the very least.¡± For a moment the only sounds that they could hear were of the tides washing on the beach but then Kamil spoke again.

    ¡°Kill me if you must but I refuse to go back there, Aelar. Not even you could make me do that.¡± Aelar felt his fury rising again, Rhea''s touch to his arm soothed him almost immediately. He didn¡¯t sigh nor did he rub his temples because he knew in times like these men needed an unyielding leader. That was what he was.

    ¡°Then we will wait here until my mother arrives. From now on no one is allowed to go into the forest except for me. If such things will drive you into fear such as this then it is best we avoid it.¡± Feron nodded, seeming relieved but Kamil still looked jittery.

    "That''s fine with me," Ayrn said coldly, turning his back and walking towards the shore. Aelar watched him go, frustration bubbling beneath his composed exterior. Ayrn had always been distant and cold, rarely offering a smile or laughter. Yet, he had been Aelar¡¯s companion for his entire life. Aelar felt a pang of guilt for striking him, even if it was justified in his eyes.

    "You should apologize to him," Rhea said softly. In her eyes, Aelar saw his own reflection: his gray Nirani skin, red and golden hair, and piercing red eyes. Yet, he felt lost, unsure if an apology was the right course of action. Aelar didn¡¯t understand what he needed to do, let alone what he wanted to do. Apologizing to Ayrn would mean sacrificing a bit of his pride and dignity, something he wasn''t willing to do. It had been one small mishap, after all.

    "Let him learn it was for the better," Aelar said firmly. "I will not apologize to him. That is what a leader would do. If a king were to apologize for every small mistake to every peasant in his lands, he would be no king." Rhea sighed, her expression a mix of concern and resignation.

    "Being a leader also means knowing when to show humility, Aelar. But I understand your point. Just... don¡¯t let your pride cloud your judgment." Aelar nodded, appreciating her words even if he couldn''t fully embrace them. He watched Ayrn¡¯s figure grow smaller as he walked away, feeling the weight of leadership pressing down on him. He had to be strong, for himself and for his people. There was no room for doubt, not now.

 Chapter 4|Dimer|Turukhan, Kingdom of Altun|

    The cold wind swept around Dimer''s face as he stared off into the starry sky. Above, the darkness between the stars mirrored the blackness that veiled his own hand. An old legend his adoptive mother, Sarina, had told him came back like whispers carried by the wind. Long ago, the First One, Ylith, had resided upon the Earth in the darkness that swallowed it. Observing the chaos of the world, he saw beings of life struggling in the endless night. Ylith knew they could not bathe in such darkness forever, so he went to his elder brother, the Lion-Man, and asked him to bring light upon the Earth so the living might see the world. Ylith desired life to grow and flourish upon Earth, for it to become the most beautiful place in all creation.

    "Earth is the planet Universe picked for life," Sarina¡¯s words filled his head as softly as silk. So Lion-Man went to their eldest brother, Tah, to seek his counsel. Tah handed Lion-Man a crown called the Worldbinder Crown. With this, Lion-Man became the King of the Realms, while Tah abandoned his family and went beyond the skies in search of what only he could know. Before he left, Tah bestowed upon the world the Sun, a radiant gift to the First Ones. Lion-Man became the First Sundering Lord, ruling over all living beings connected to the world, including the other First Ones.

    Remembering Ylith¡¯s request, Lion-Man took the sun and bestowed it upon all creation, thus granting the first piece of order to the realms. "The Sun chased away the darkness that covered the world and gave the world its First Order," Sarina had said. Dimer felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. The legend seemed to resonate with his own journey, a path marked by shadows and light. He had always been drawn to tales of old, finding solace in the stories Sarina wove, stories of gods and kings, of crowns and realms beyond comprehension. He believed they held truth in them, if not all. While some would disagree with him he found himself idolizing the triumphs and greatness of the kings of old.

    Dimer would come to this balcony to think of these stories often reflecting on them in soaking in the memories of old as if he were in one of those stories himself. He would become annoyed when he was interrupted by others, always preferring to have some alone time to himself at least once per day but it wasn¡¯t always possible. Just as it wasn¡¯t now. The insistent rapping on his chamber door shattered Dimer Beyk''s reverie. He grumbled, a low sound in his throat. Hajr Shah rarely called for him, and certainly never after dark. The Shah kept to a rigid schedule, work by day, rest by night, with little room for deviation. Even family took a backseat to his order. Though by now, Dimer mused with a grimace, even family wouldn''t want much to do with him.

    ¡°You may come in.¡± He called. There, by the doorway, stood a young serving girl, her eyes wide and worried. Recognition flickered in Dimer''s mind, a name on the tip of his tongue he couldn''t quite grasp. "Dimer Beyk," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "Hajr Shah requests your presence at the grand council. He¡­ he says it is urgent." Urgent. The word sent a jolt through Dimer. Hajr Shah didn''t deal in urgency. Urgency was for spilled wine and leaky roofs, not matters of state. He pushed himself up, the sheets tangled around him. The girl remained by the door, a silent statue carved from nervous anticipation. Dimer realized with a start that he hadn''t dismissed her. He cleared his throat, the sound rough.

    "Tell the Shah," he said, his voice hoarse, "that I will be there shortly."

    "He¡­ he implores you to attend with haste," the girl stammered, her voice barely audible. Dimer frowned. Implore? Hajr Shah didn''t implore. He commanded. This whole situation reeked of something rotten, a sour note in the familiar song of the Shah''s routine. The girl bowed, her back a rigid line, and fled from the room, leaving Dimer alone with his churning thoughts. He rose, his bare feet cold against the worn floorboards. A glance at the cluttered desk confirmed what his gut already knew ¨C a normal night''s rest was forfeit.

    He padded over to the massive wardrobe, it''s dark wood polished to a high gleam by countless hands. The faint scent of woodsmoke clung to it, a reminder of the ancient, ruby-red deadwood trees it was crafted from. The candlelight danced on its surface, making the intricate carvings writhe like phantoms. With a sigh, Dimer threw open the doors. Clothes, row upon row, filled the space. Rich silks and embroidered leathers, all the trappings of a noble house. Dimer winced. He hated formal wear, all stiff collars and constricting fabrics. But tonight, he supposed, comfort would have to take a backseat to propriety.

    Hajr rarely summoned him to council. The reason, of course, was simple ¨C Dimer Beyk wasn''t a blood son of the Altan line. He was a foundling, plucked from the streets of far-off Cragoria. Sarina, his adopted mother, had once told him of merchants who''d brought him as part of a trade caravan, a quick coin for a life uprooted. He''d grown up alongside Derya and Tarkan, but blood always whispered louder than shared meals.

    Derya was similar to him. Sarina¡¯s sister and Derya¡¯s mother were giving birth at the same time as fate would have it and cruelly so she died while giving birth to Derya. At that moment they handed Derya to Sarina and she had held both children in her arms, her love no greater for one over the other. Dimer could almost feel himself tearing up.

    Crowns and thrones held no sway over Dimer. He was a tool, a blade honed for Hajr''s hand. Tonight''s summons were no different. But a cunning glint sparked in his eyes. He reached for a cloak, crimson as spilled wine, the initials "DO" stitched on the back in gleaming copper wire. The fur at the collar, softer than any memory, was a birthday gift from Hajr, a reminder of the day they bought him. Draping the cloak around him, a shield against watchful eyes, Dimer emerged from his chamber.

    The halls stretched before him, vast and echoing. Crimson carpets bled onto the cool stone walls, a mismatch that spoke of time''s relentless march. Each doorway held a solitary sentinel: a portrait of the first to claim that space. A dusty tome somewhere chronicled these past lives, but Dimer held no interest in its faded pages. His gaze, however, was drawn to the portrait across the hall. Bayar Shah, Altan''s son, the second of his line, stared back with eyes that held a chilling familiarity.

    The man in the portrait held Dimer''s gaze with eyes like cold chips of slate. Discomfort prickled Dimer''s skin, a familiar sensation whenever their eyes met. Time, however, had dulled the edge of his unease. He''d even delved into dusty scrolls, piecing together fragments of Bayar Shah''s life. As Dimer strode down the echoing halls towards the Grand Council room, his boots thudded against the crimson carpet. He imagined Bayar treading these same stones, a phantom king haunting the past. But surely Bayar''s steps had been more frequent, a constant presence unlike Dimer''s own. A question, long simmering in Dimer''s mind, bubbled to the surface.

    Why had Bayar''s chambers been tucked away, distant from the halls of power? Abid, the blind son of Hajr''s sister, had once offered a fair answer.

    "A king needs to learn the value of time, so was the test placed upon Bayar by Altan to see for his readiness for the throne," Abid had rasped, his pale eyes fixed on nothing. A faint smile played on his lips. Dimer frowned, not understanding.

    "But I''ll never be king," he said confused. Abid''s laugh, a dry cough punctuated by a sniff, echoed in the memory.

    "Every man benefits from knowing what makes a king, little lord. For power shifts like desert sands, and you, with your own eyes, must judge who holds true worth." Dimer hadn''t grasped the meaning then. But when Tarkan declared his ambition to be Shah, a new awareness bloomed. His gaze seemed to cling to Tarkan''s every move ¨C a twitch of the lip, a narrowed eye. A fascination, a silent study, of his brother, the boy who walked and spoke like a king in the making.

    In the heart of the hall, a massive oak door marked the entrance to the Grand Council room. A cacophony of voices spilled from within, a stark contrast to the usual hushed tones. Dimer paused, his curiosity piqued. What weight of matter could rouse such a tempest? A final glance fell upon the portrait flanking the doorway. The first hand of Altan, a man some claimed bore a likeness to Dimer (though the resemblance was fleeting). The same raven hair, the same emerald eyes ¨C a reflection, perhaps, of a shared lineage but that may be of more wishful thinking.

    Dimer pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the council chamber. The room fell silent, a dozen eyes swiveling in his direction. Discomfort prickled his skin under their scrutiny. Instinctively, his gloved hand drifted to his back, a gesture that offered a flicker of reassurance. It straightened his spine, a subtle defiance against the sudden weight of attention. The glove, a worn leather sheath, concealed his blackened hand. Tarkan wore one as well, a concession to Dimer''s insistence. Derya''s hand was adorned with a different sort of covering, a shimmering gauntlet of gold, crafted to obscure her own mark. Even Kadir bore a glove, a curious thing fashioned from the rosy bark of deadwood trees. He claimed it grounded him, a connection to the earth and Turukhan.

    "Come, Dimer," boomed Kadir''s voice, a stark contrast to the scowl that had marred his face earlier. "Stand with your brothers." Dimer navigated the silent sea of stares, his own unease pricking at him like nettles. He reached his siblings, their hushed words a counterpoint to the tense quietude of the room.

    "What''s the matter?" Dimer leaned towards Derya, his voice barely a whisper.

    "Nonsense," she muttered back, her brow furrowed in confusion. "They''ve been yapping on for ages, but it''s all gibberish to me and Tarkan." Tarkan chimed in, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

    "Taykori. They speak Taykori, actually. Just too fast for their own good." Derya snorted, a fleeting smile gracing her lips.

    "Well, then perhaps you should hone your skills, brother." Dimer joined in the banter, a light jab at Tarkan. His brother''s reply was a steely glare that sent a shiver down Dimer''s spine. A moment of unease passed.

    "Everyone''s watching," Derya murmured, her voice laced with concern. Dimer tore his gaze from Tarkan, the tension momentarily forgotten. Hajr sat upon his throne, his attention fixed not upon the three siblings but upon the words etched above him. The faded inscription held the weight of generations:

    "The Land We Took, The Land We Gave. Our Responsibilities To Our Graves."

    Kadir cleared his throat, his voice firm, but a sharp interruption cut him off. Noyan, the Keeper of Laws, stepped forward, his presence demanding immediate attention.

    "Their whispers hold no sway over us," he declared. "Let them glean what they can from our hushed words, if their wits are keen enough." The pronouncement sent a chill down Dimer''s spine. Derya, responding quickly, shot Tarkan a warning glance, her hand darting out to cover his mouth before another outburst could escape. A wiry council member, ?enay, spoke next, her voice laced with doubt.

    "These markings¡­ perhaps they are a burden, not a boon." Esen, the silver-tongued diplomat, countered with unexpected fervor. He raised his hands towards the ceiling, his voice echoing in the chamber.

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    "Or a sign of destiny! A mark of the sun, a divine blessing upon our bloodline! Perhaps even a mark of favor, a promise of a vassal touched by the gods!" Dimer stole a glance at Derya. A flicker of unease mirrored his own feelings in her eyes. Esen''s piety, once a source of quiet admiration, now felt stifling. A resounding crack shattered the stillness as Kadir slammed his fist on the table. All eyes snapped towards him, the air thick with anticipation. Even Hajr, his gaze previously fixed on the inscription overhead, finally turned his attention back to the council.

    "Mind your words, Esen. She''s just a girl. She-"

    ¡°She is a girl that has received her duties and at last can come to us as an Altan true in blood.¡± Interrupted Esen bristling.

    ¡°They may be worth more than any gold could ever be,¡± T?r said. All heads swiveled to him, the Keeper of War. ¡°So why give them to the Nirans?¡± Dimer frowned, confused. He had only ever heard of the Nirans in short poems his mother had told him about when he couldn¡¯t go to sleep. She said they were the first beings created that lived in darkness and ruled the entire earth until one day they all mysteriously left.

    "Gold secures loyalty," Hajr continued, his gaze unwavering. "It may not forge friendship, but it can establish a connection. A bridge between two peoples, a path towards understanding."

    Kadir leaned forward, a skeptical glint in his eye. "A bridge of gold? Risky business, Hajr. What happens when the gold runs dry?"

    ¡°We give them our gold so why would they not use it?¡± He replied confidently.

    ¡°I still feel it is foolish to give them our gold then.¡± T?r said, crossing his arm. He wore an eye patch but even with one eye you could see this man was not one to jest with. He had hairy arms as large as the trunks of a tree and his face was scarred from countless experiences in battles. He had hardly any hair left on his head and any that remained had grayed away.

    ¡°Mind yourself.¡± Kadir said again. Hajr lifted his hand, silencing Kadir.

    Hajr turned sharply, his eyes piercing Esen''s. "The Nirans, ancient mark users, why would they harm their own? And Derya, a Vassal among us, why would they harm her? They can''t take such power; they''d nurture it instead. It''s not passed down through generations¡ªit''s nearly impossible."

    Dimer couldn¡¯t understand anything they were saying. Derya a God? Derya wasn¡¯t a God nor a vassal. These men spoke without sense.

    ¡°Who are these Nirans?¡± Tarkan demanded suddenly. Everyone at the council table looked at each other giving themselves looks Dimer couldn¡¯t understand.

    ¡°Had your mother never told you in yer bed?¡± Laughed T?m?r their blacksmith. Tarkan stiffened. Kadir glared at T?m?r.

    Kadir explained to Tarkan, "The Nirans, ancient beings, once dwelled on the Rejected Piece. It seems some have returned to their homeland."

    ¡°What does this have to do with us? You talk of marks and speak of us as gold. You act as if we cannot hear you.¡± He finished sharply.

    ¡°The Nirans in the legends were known to have incredible affinities with their marked magic. Beyond what any human could. In reality it is difficult for any human to ever get a mark so one getting one is beyond a miracle.¡± Dimer flexed his own blackened hand and saw Tarkan do the same, balling it into a fist.

    ¡°So you want to send us to them to have them train our marks.¡± Derya finished off the question. Kadir nodded his head.

    ¡°Have you even discussed this with them? Have we ever talked with them or had any communications?¡± Dimer demanded.

    Kadir nodded, his voice steady. "Truth be told, we haven''t.¡±

    ¡°So what makes us think they would ever accept this absurd offer?¡± Dimer spoke again in the same demanding tone.

    ¡°Because our marks aren¡¯t ones meant for humans.¡± Derya answered again. She looked down at her hand before looking back at Tarkan, searching for confirmation in his eyes. He had taken off his own glove and was staring into his blackened hand.

    ¡°Dimer, you should take an example from Derya,¡± said Bataar, the Leader of their Shah-Keep. Dimer turned on him, annoyed but not quite understanding what he said. ¡°She answers the questions you ask, yet you both have gone under the same tutoring and were raised from the same teat.¡± He told him, almost smirking.

    "Enough of this prattle," Kadir barked, his voice thick with impatience. "We spin tales like a drunken fool''s song, achieving nought but wasted breath." His gaze, cold and sharp as a winter wind, swept across the chamber, settling on Hajr. Hajr spoke calmly.

    "Three of you shall journey to Niran, there to hone your marksmanship, assuming you possess any marks to hone. Serve as our wardens, eyes in the distance, ever watchful, ever reporting. Fail in this duty, and by the First Ones, you''ll answer for it. I trust none of you to paint the council fools, so see you don''t." Dimer bristled, his blood warming with a simmering anger. Leaving held no appeal, yet his voice remained stubbornly silent. Tarkan, frustration etching lines upon his youthful face, stepped forward.

    "Why send us away, Shah? What guarantee have we the Nirans will accept such... guests?" Kadir studied him, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features.

    "A valid question, Tarkan, I will grant you that. But know this: whatever path you seek here, it shall be smoother walked amongst the Nirans. This discussion ends now. Prepare yourselves, for you depart in two days'' time." The pronouncement hung heavy in the air. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until finally T?r snorted, a humorless sound that shattered the tension. He rose to his feet, and with a shake of his head, muttered a curse under his breath. The council was done, yet none moved.

    With a muttered complaint, he turned and headed for the exit. "A leader ignores no voice," T?r rumbled, his tone heavy.

    "But recklessness brings ruin, and that''s no friend to anyone. Had you not learned this by now?" Hajr responded not looking towards the man. T?r lingered by the door for a moment, then vanished into the hallway without another word. The others quickly filed out, offering hurried farewells to Hajr and Kadir. Once alone, Derya''s curiosity bubbled over.

    "Why not Kadir? Why can''t he train us?" Kadir chuckled, removing his glove.

    "Our abilities are like night and day, and likely yours will be as well, from what we understand. The old texts say each mark is unique. Besides, I''ve only ever encountered one other marked person myself." His gaze flickered to Hajr, seeking confirmation. Hajr tapped his fingers on the table, then rose and exited the room, leaving Kadir waving after him with a faint smile. Dimer turned to Tarkan and Derya, his voice laced with wonder.

    "Who could it be?" Tarkan shrugged, settling into Hajr''s vacated seat. He propped his legs on the table and leaned back, lost in thought.

    "With so many out there, guessing who it is would be like searching for a needle in a haystack," he sighed, his voice heavy with disinterest. Dimer couldn''t help but notice his posture lacked its usual regal bearing. Derya nudged Tarkan playfully.

    "You shouldn''t be sitting there. What if someone sees you and gets the wrong idea?" Tarkan straightened with a mischievous grin.

    "Then they''ll have nothing to report but an empty seat." Derya rolled her eyes but couldn''t help a smile.

    "Why Niran, though?" Dimer muttered, brow furrowed in confusion. "They send us away from home without explanation. There has to be a bigger reason behind it all."

    Derya tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I doubt they''d send us somewhere unsafe. But you''re right, there''s likely more to it than they''re letting on."

    "Maybe they only want to be rid of us," Tarkan offered, glancing at his blackened hand with a hint of bitterness. "Maybe they think these marks will make us too dangerous." Dimer wasn''t sure if he was serious, but Tarkan''s gaze held a flicker of seriousness.

    "Nonsense, Derya," scoffed Derya. "Remember what Esen said-"

    "Esen said you are a God or¡­ or a Vassal of some sorts," Tarkan grumbled, rubbing his forehead. "Perhaps Hajr thinks the same? He speaks of gold but who has ever wanted blood coin?" He trailed off, muttering to himself. Dimer shivered, though he couldn''t explain why. Tarkan''s words held a strange weight, even if they seemed far-fetched. Hajr had always seemed dedicated to a higher purpose. How could getting rid of them be part of that? Surely Hajr would want to use their abilities, even if it wasn''t always comfortable.

    Derya waved Tarkan''s words away."You speak with empty words." Tarkan tapped the armrest, his gaze distant.

    "Even a wolf on an iron chain can turn and bite," he murmured. Dimer hesitated.

    "Maybe there''s some truth to it," he ventured, then quickly added, "But we are no wolves on chains. We have grown up here with Hajr above us. We¡¯ve shared his meals and sat with him." He glanced at Tarkan, who didn''t respond with any words but his gaze held enough. Quietly Tarkan gathered his robes and went to the door to leave.

    "Where are you off to?" Dimer called after him. Tarkan didn''t answer, leaving them alone in the room.

    "Tarkan wrestles with too many thoughts ofttimes," Derya said, her gaze lingering on the spot where he''d stood. Dimer wasn''t so certain. Tarkan aspired to a king''s mind, that much was true, but it might lead him down paths far from where he stood. "Yet there''s a flicker of something admirable in it," Derya admitted, settling onto a council seat, her weight resting on her palms. Dimer felt a warmth rise to his cheeks. "He ponders the man he will become," Derya said, a hint of amusement in her narrowed eyes as she turned to him. "Who are we to say he isn''t that man already?" Dimer considered this, his hand finding her shoulder. Was she right? In Tarkan''s own eyes, he was already the king-to-be. Yet, for others, he remained the child who clung to his mother''s side. Since then, Tarkan''s voice had grown stronger. Even at four, a memory flickered in Dimer''s mind, a harsh exchange between Cem and Kadir that he''d overheard. A cold whisper of a conversation, meant for ears that wouldn''t understand. Yet, Dimer had understood every word.

    ''Some are born with rusted gears,'' Cem had said, his voice like winter wind. ''And Tarkan might be one of those.'' Even now, the memory sent a shiver down his spine.

    "Well, we leave in two days," Dimer said, shifting the conversation to banish unwelcome thoughts. He glanced away, feigning indifference. Derya rose, stretching her limbs gracefully.

    "I wonder what Narin is like," she mused, her eyes clouded with distant visions of the fabled land.

    "The legends always said that it was a haunted and cursed land," Dimer replied, methodically working his hands.

    "Since when have Hajr and Kadir ever believed in those stories?" Derya countered, stifling a yawn. She was right in that notion. Hajr and Kadir had always dismissed such tales, though they never dictated what to believe. Tarkan remained enigmatic about his own beliefs, but Dimer knew he enjoyed the stories as much as they did, even if he never admitted it. The memory of their name day ceremony gnawed at Dimer. Why had Hajr insisted on a ritual he didn''t believe in, especially one honoring the First Ones, whom he clearly disliked? Dimer had never mustered the courage to question him directly, nor had he found the right moment. Yet, he recalled something Derya had overheard from the servants. Hajr, during a dinner with a Frostheim diplomat, had spoken of ships lost at Altan''s Landing. To compensate, he had promised the rare deadwood trees, prized in Frostheim for their scarcity.

    When they had been signing the papers, the Frostheim man had insisted on sealing the agreement in the name of Kaelar, but Hajr had refused, commanding him to leave his kingdom. The man, furious and vengeful, had sworn that Kaelar¡¯s doom would befall upon them. Yet, the promised calamity never came. Derya always said it was because Kaelar recognized the good within their kingdom, sparing it from destruction.

    The man who had invoked Kaelar''s wrath had eventually met a grim fate, perhaps a divine punishment for daring to speak on behalf of a god. Hajr couldn¡¯t be foolish enough to take such risks, could he? He had always been the quietest at any table, his eyes observing and mind whirring, devising the best solutions. His decision to send them to Niran must be another calculated move. Inside, Dimer felt a spark of reassurance, finding solace in his thoughts. Hajr knew what was best for his kingdom and for them, and he had acted accordingly.

 Chapter 5|Galen Pierce|Cragoria, Sky Pierce Rings|

    The memory lingered, a cold hand gripping his heart every time he settled on the hard stone of the throne. It played out like a cruel tourney, each moment a blow. One minute he stood tall on the King''s justice, the second highest seat in the realm. The next, the ground rushed up to meet him, a sickening fall that left him staring sightless at the black water. These were the dreams that stole his breath, a never-ending winter that clung to him even in sleep. Some nights, he woke with a gasp, the echoes of the fall ringing in his ears. Knights would come rushing in, faces grim, but he''d mutter a gruff word, wipe the sweat from his brow with a rough cloth, and send them away. Only to be dragged back under, the icy water claiming him once more.

    Galen kept his woes bottled up tight. He''d seen what happened to those who whined and whimpered. The Idols only clamped down harder, shoving you deeper into the muck until you couldn''t claw your way back up for air. Sleep offered no solace either. Nightmares coiled around him like vipers, and for the first time, he dreaded closing his eyes. He threw on a tunic, the urge for fresh air gnawing at him. Maybe a walk through the gardens would clear his head. Stepping out of his overly decorated chambers, he spotted another soul with the same thought. Ser Theron, one of the Queen''s white swords, shuffled down the hall.

    His ¡®Kilij¡¯, Oathkeeper, dragged behind him like a weary heart. His golden hair, once a crown of glory, hung lank and unwashed. Galen considered conversing with the knight. Perhaps his company would ease the tightness in his chest. But Galen found no comfort in knights these days. He turned instead, seeking the familiar creak of the long stairs. The servants had a foul name for them, The Groaner. A cruel jest by the Queen, if ever there was one. Endless steps that went on forever, testing the patience of even the most stalwart. Some, like the Queen''s nephew Prince Korin, claimed it built character. Galen wasn''t so sure about that, but he supposed it kept his legs strong. A small mercy, perhaps, in this gilded cage.

    A curt nod was all Lord Galen offered the ten guards, their helms reflecting the cold dawn back at the castle. Yet, the heavy oak doors remained stubbornly shut. Disquiet settled over the scene. These were good men, loyal to the crown, and they wouldn''t disobey an order without cause. "Open the gates, Dralik," Galen commanded the nearest guard. A man of few words, his hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. A soldier''s reflex, honed by years of duty.

    "My lord," he began, voice gruff, "we''ve been instructed by Ser Luthon to deny passage to anyone." Galen met his gaze, a flicker of unease battling the calmness expected of his position.

    "What reason did Ser Luthon give?" Dralik shook his head, brow furrowed. "None, my lord. He simply relayed the order." This was peculiar. Luthon, for all his sternness, was a man of order and followed the crown''s commands with unwavering loyalty. His knights, too, were renowned for their discipline. What madness had possessed him to defy the very authority he served? A disloyal act, one that could have dire consequences. Yet, the man wouldn''t dare act on a whim. Something was afoot, something troubling that clouded Luthon''s usually clear judgment.

    A curt order echoed through the tense courtyard. "Take me to your captain. Now." Dralik, after a jerky nod towards another knight, barked out an instruction.

    "Tormek, escort the Hand to Ser Luthon." Tormek, with a brisk nod, hurried over and led the way. He wasn''t visibly nervous, but appearances could be deceiving. They climbed the winding stairs, but instead of continuing upwards, Tormek steered Galen through a doorway onto a servants'' level. They proceeded past numerous closed doors, an unexpected route.

    "What business does your captain have in these quarters?" Galen inquired, a question hanging in the air unanswered as Tormek remained silent. A growing unease gnawed at Galen. The pieces weren''t fitting. When Tormek reached a door and knocked, the ensuing sounds only deepened the mystery. Scuffling noises, then the door creaking open to reveal a very surprised Ser Luthon, clad only in a towel. Galen''s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. The scene before him defied explanation.

    "Yes? What business do you have with me at this time?" Luthon stammered, directing his question at Tormek. The knight bowed his head, stepping aside to reveal Galen. Luthon''s eyes widened in shock. He lurched forward, dropping to his knees.

    "My apologies, my lord," he stammered. "I... I was unaware of your arrival." Galen observed him with a cold detachment, his voice laced with ice as he addressed the kneeling knight.

    "Your men barred the entrance. Explain yourselves" Luthon coughed awkwardly.

    A sour taste crept onto Lord Galen''s tongue as Ser Luthon bowed, pronouncements of apologies dripping from his lips. "Assassins within the city walls," the man had claimed, news gleaned from "soldiers within Aerakos''s Haven warned me of such" Yet the tremor in Luthon''s voice spoke louder than words, a discordant note amidst the practiced courtesy. Galen clenched his jaw, the weight of the helm a dull ache against his brow. He''d known men to shirk their duty in the face of danger, to seek solace in wine and song rather than the chill bite of the night watch. But to bring such news, however flimsy, only to delay in its delivery¡­ it smacked of self-importance, a desire to play the hero without the action.

    "Late, was it?" Galen rumbled, the fire crackling in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. He kept his voice level, the cold fury simmering beneath. A knight knew his duty, knew the chain of command. Disrupting the chain, especially with whispers of assassins, was a game for fools. Luthon shifted his weight, a sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead despite the cool air of the chamber.

    "Aye, my lord," he stammered. "I wouldn''t want to disturb your rest with such¡­ unsettling news." Galen fought the urge to roll his eyes. Rest? With a city on edge and whispers of treachery? A true knight wouldn''t dream of such indulgence. He sighed, the sound heavy in the tense silence.

    "Ser Luthon," he began, his voice laced with steel, "there are consequences for delayed reports, for¡­" he hesitated, searching for the right word, "for embellishment." Across the room, Tormek, his loyal captain of the guard, stiffened. A flicker of something, perhaps anticipation, passed through his dark eyes. Galen met his gaze for a brief moment, a silent command passing between them. But Luthon, instead of cowering, did something unexpected. A smile, sly and unsettling, tugged at the corner of his lips. His gaze darted to Tormek, then back to Galen.

    "Apologies, my lord," he said, his voice tinged with something akin to amusement, "but my loyalty lies with Ser Luthon. Taking him into custody¡­ well, that wouldn''t be possible at this¡­ moment." Galen''s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. The man''s defiance, the veiled threat in his words, sent a surge of anger through him. This was no mere lapse in judgement, this was¡­ something else entirely. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, a cold warning that sent a shiver down his spine.

    ¡°So you deny my command?¡± Demanded Galen carefully. The knight didn¡¯t do anything to confirm what he had said. Galen rubbed his forehead. ¡°I understand. Then I apologize for what I will do to you and your soldiers but with the power that resides within me now.¡± He met both of the knights in the eyes. ¡°I hereby withdraw your knighthood until further notice.¡± With that Galen turned and walked away. Not a murmur, not a whisper followed him as he went. Only four eyes drilling into his back.

    Galen wondered what had happened to Luthon, the man who had joined the knights at such a young age with honorable intentions was now¡­ Perhaps this was the consequence of the peaceful times. It was as the Council Elder Elindra had said to him one time three years ago. Their anniversary for the Queen''s coronation. A time for celebrating the peace that had ensued in her rule.

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    ¡°The old stones whisper of a turning of the wheel," the elder intoned, her voice dry as old parchment. "Ages of winter sharpen the claws of men, forging them into hardened steel. Yet when the sun returns and the snows recede, those same men grow soft, lulled by ease. They forget the bite of the cold, the gnaw of hunger, and a new generation, untested, must rise to face the next inevitable winter." This was what played out now perhaps. Soldiers were hardly in need of anymore, most spending their times playing cards and drinking instead of working.

    A sliver of colored light, like a wound in the stone, sliced across Galen''s face as he descended the steps. He flinched, raising a hand to shield his eyes. The dawn had come on quicker than he''d expected, or perhaps he''d lingered too long in his chambers, lost in thought. He couldn''t quite recall. It was a disquietude that gnawed at him these days, a hollowness that sleep couldn''t fill. He reached the level of the Queen''s chambers and found the usual morning bustle in full swing.

    Servants scurried about, their movements sharp and practiced. They dipped their heads and mumbled respectful greetings as they spotted him, a ritual that felt oddly hollow this morning. Disrespect was a rare thing for him, but the memory of Luthon''s veiled insolence still lingered, a bitter aftertaste. He paused before the Queen''s door, its dark oak surface intricately carved with scenes of legend, each a testament to forgotten masters. Two figures stood guard, the Queen''s personal guard. Ser Vorthar, a man who''d seen service under the Queen''s father and his own, gave a curt nod. Galen never quite trusted those who outlived their charges. The man''s gray hair was pulled back tight, a bushy mustache hiding any hint of expression beneath. Beside him stood Randor, younger, barely into his twenties, his dark hair a mess of sleep. A smile flickered across Randor''s face when he saw Galen.

    "Lord Hand," Randor greeted, his voice relaxed. "What brings you here at this ungodly hour?" Galen swallowed, the disquietude tightening in his gut.

    "News," he said finally. "Urgent news for the Queen." Randor and Vorthar both looked at each other, seeming to be worried.

    Vorthar''s hand tightened on his hilt. "Good news, I hope, my lord? What troubles you?" Galen shook his head, a knot of unease twisting in his gut.

    "Keep a sharp eye," he warned the guards. This news was for the Queen''s ears only, but a cold dread gnawed at him. Luthon hadn''t been discreet, and whispers traveled faster than ravens in a castle. He could only pray the man had kept his mouth shut.

    "Only the Queen," he muttered, his voice hard. Randor''s grip mirrored Vorthar''s, his youthful face grim.

    "Understood, my lord. But Her Majesty slumbers still. Perhaps, if it can wait..." Galen cut him off with a shake of his head. Time was a fickle beast, and this news wouldn''t wait.

    "Wake her," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. Vorthar bowed curtly and approached the ornately carved oak door. Three knocks echoed in the pre-dawn quiet, followed by a disgruntled bellow from within.

    "What in seven hells is the meaning of this racket?" the Queen roared. A hint of a smirk played on Randor''s lips. Her Majesty wasn''t known for her patience at this hour. Vorthar called back through the door.

    "Lord Hand Galen seeks an audience, Your Grace. He claims it urgent." Silence followed, punctuated by the rustle of movement. Finally, the Queen''s voice, though less volatile, boomed out,

    "Send him in, then. And close the door properly, Vorthar, there''s a chill in this air."

    The door creaked open a sliver, revealing the Queen. Her hair was a mess of silver strands, escaping the confines of a hastily donned robe. A chill wind from the window tugged at it, mirroring the unease in Galen''s gut. She offered a wan smile.

    "Come in, Galen. No need for ceremony this early." He dipped his head respectfully and entered the chamber. The Queen straightened, trying to project an air of regality. Yet, the disarray of her attire and the worry etched on her face betrayed her. "Forgive my state, Galen," she said, her voice rough with sleep. "As you can see, I haven''t yet¡­" She trailed off with a sigh. Galen rose to his full height, forgoing the formality of kneeling.

    "Your Grace," he began, running a hand through his beard. "There''s troubling news, and I fear it may not be entirely reliable, but¡­" The Queen''s eyes narrowed, concern flickering within them.

    "Speak plainly, friend. What troubles the castle?" He took a deep breath.

    "I had planned a night walk in the gardens, but Lunthor''s knights barred my way. When I questioned them, they claimed it was his order to have the gardens guarded."

    A frown etched itself onto the Queen''s face. "Lunthor? What business does he have guarding the gardens?" "Did they offer any explanation?" the Queen demanded, her voice laced with suspicion. Galen shook his head.

    "No, Your Grace. Instead, one of their knights escorted me to Lunthor. He was found... in an unusual location." He hesitated, then blurted out, "The servants'' quarters, Your Grace. My apologies for the bluntness." The Queen waved a dismissive hand.

    "Speak plainly, Galen. What troubles you?"

    "Lunthor claimed to have received word of assassins in Aerakos''s Haven," Galen continued. "He offered no explanation for withholding such news." The Queen''s face hardened, her jaw clenching. She rose and began to pace the room, her steps echoing in the pre-dawn quiet.

    "And why did he not inform us of this threat?" she demanded, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

    "He claimed the lateness of the hour," Galen replied. "When I ordered his knight to detain him, the man refused. For their disobedience,

    I stripped them both of their knighthoods for the time being." The Queen nodded curtly.

    "A wise decision, Galen. Lunthor''s actions were troubling. Normally, he is a man of duty." A frown creased Galen''s brow. He shared the Queen''s unease.

    "What are your orders, Your Grace?" She paused, considering her options. A humorless laugh escaped her lips.

    "It seems a return to a more vigilant guard is necessary. We cannot afford such lapses in security. Additionally, Lunthor and his knights are to be detained until this matter is investigated further." The Queen stopped pacing, her hand reaching up to smooth her hair, which had come loose in her agitation.

    "And what of these assassins, Your Grace?" Galen pressed carefully. The Queen''s brow furrowed.

    "We need to lock down Aerakos''s Haven fast. Get guards in the city, questioning anyone who might know anything about these supposed assassins. Anyone suspicious, anyone out of place - bring them in for a closer look." A flicker of doubt crossed her face.

    "Honestly, I hate these snap decisions. Always the worry of going overboard." Galen met her gaze with unwavering loyalty.

    "Your calls have always been good ones, Your Grace. Trust your gut. I have a feeling this will be another smart move." The Queen offered him a grateful smile.

    "Here''s hoping, my friend. Only time will tell." Time, a relentless march, held the answers they craved. Galen''s mind drifted back to the Queen''s rise to power. A young girl of five, she''d been thrust into a tough spot after her father, King Aros the Vain, kicked the bucket. How King Aros died was a mystery. A young man, barely in his thirties, when it happened. No one missed him much.

    King Aros''s reign had been a disaster for the kingdom, piling on debt and letting corruption run wild. The King lined his pockets while his people suffered, his goons shaking them down for every coin they had. It was a deep regret for Galen. He hadn''t known what the King was up to, since Aros only confided in his brother, Prince Ered. When the young princess inherited the throne, many questioned if she was up to the job. Some wanted the Queen Dowager to take charge, while others, including himself, had been hesitant to step up. He hadn''t felt fit, haunted by past mistakes.

    Galen backed the young Queen. In the end, the council grumbled but agreed. It was during their first meeting that they glimpsed the steel beneath her innocent facade. Despite her tender age, she spent hours buried in books, scribbling furiously in margins. Her questions, often strange and probing, initially fueled doubts about her fitness to rule. But slowly, it dawned on them ¨C she wasn''t odd, she was sharp. Her first act as Queen was a bold one ¨C a complete overhaul of the council, with the sole exception of Galen himself. When he pressed her on this curious decision, she offered only a giggle and a cryptic,

    "You''ll understand someday." Galen, a hardened man, was taken aback by the girl''s audacity. Yet, he watched as she replaced the council with men of honor and integrity. Time proved her right. These were the men and women who guided the kingdom through some of its darkest hours. The people adored their Queen. She was their beacon, their pride, their most cherished leader. As Galen knelt to take his leave and carry out his assigned duties, a commotion erupted. A man burst through the doors, his face contorted in urgency.

    The door burst open with a bang, revealing Vorandus, the Queen''s captain of the guard. His face was a mask of terror. "Your Grace!" he roared, collapsing to his knees. Galen surged to his feet, grabbing Vorandus by the shoulders and hauling him upright.

    "Gods be good, man! What''s happened?" Vorandus shook his head, his voice a strangled whisper.

    "Intruders." Galen''s gaze snapped to Queen Zorvaia. Her face had drained of color.

    "What kind of intruders?" he demanded, his voice tight. "Anyone injured?" Vorandus rose, towering over Galen. His eyes were hollow.

    "The Prince," he choked out. "Dead. Murdered in his chambers." The news slammed into Galen like a physical blow. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with dread. Queen Zorvaia swayed, her hand flying to her mouth.

 Chapter 6|Tarkan|Turukhan, Tidal Reach|

    The two days had gone by as if he¡¯d never lived through them. It had been so quick and gone, so empty and dull that he could hardly recall a memory of a breath he had taken in those two days. Hajr had told Tarkan that in times the dullest moments made the time go by.

    ¡°Your own mind acts as its own world. So a different time. A different world. And¡­ what else?¡± He asked, turning to him. Their tutor room hadn¡¯t been very large but Tarkan had never minded the size. He never stood up from his chair either way. Hajr looked at him, narrowing his eyes, waiting for an answer from Tarkan and he knew mediocre wouldn¡¯t pass. The answer for this question seemed to be locked behind years of experience though and Tarkan was a mere age of twelve. He didn¡¯t understand how Hajr expected him to know the answer to this question but if he expected something he knew it was possible.

    Tarkan chewed on his lip, brow furrowed like a knight wrestling a stubborn portcullis. Hajr''s words hung heavy in the air of the cramped tutor''s room, stale as year-old bread. "Another world," he muttered, the taste of parchment clinging to his tongue like dust. "Another place..." He squeezed his eyes shut, the scratchy wool of his tunic an irritation against his skin. Hajr wouldn''t settle for a simple answer, not on something like this. It demanded a truth, something Tarkan had wrestled with himself. His mind drifted back to his friends, when they had been roasting chestnuts on a hearth together as a family. Back then, everyone had been together. He could almost smell the woodsmoke and roasting sheep, hear the murmur of voices and the clatter of tankards.

    But most vividly, he recalled the sensation. The way a gripping tale spun by a seasoned bard could transport him entirely. One moment he was a Tarkan Altan hunched on a stool, the next a fearless knight charging through a battlefield, or a cunning scout slipping through enemy lines under the cloak of night. In those stories, he wasn''t Tarkan, the Daydream King. He was whoever the bard wove into existence, living a thousand lives in a single breath. A realization dawned on him. Hajr wasn''t just talking about another location, a physical space marked on a map.

    He was talking about another way of being. Stories weren''t just entertainment, they were portals. They could transform you, make you feel a thousand emotions, live a thousand experiences, all without ever leaving your chair. Tarkan opened his eyes, a flicker of understanding chasing away the fog. He wasn''t sure if it was the answer Hajr sought, but it was the truth, his truth.

    "Another being," Tarkan declared, his voice firm. A flicker of amusement danced in Hajr''s eyes, and he offered a gentle pat to Tarkan''s head.

    "Not quite, but a valiant attempt. A most unusual answer, to be sure. One that has not graced these dusty halls before." A hint of pride flickered in Hajr''s voice. Tarkan flushed, a touch of disappointment warring with the unexpected praise.

    "Then what is the answer, Hajr?" Tarkan pressed, tugging at his tunic to ease the scratchiness. Hajr ambled to the door, his hand resting on the knob.

    "That, young Tarkan, is a question you must answer yourself. Every worthy warrior carries within them questions that burn for a reply. Let this be yours to unravel." With a final, enigmatic look, Hajr swept from the room, leaving Tarkan alone with his thoughts and the lingering words of his Shah.

    The journey to Tidal reach had been slightly annoying since Tarkan had forgotten it was a day''s journey away from the kingdom. The last time he had been here was years ago when they had gone to visit the Ignis family, on the Dragons Back. If Tarkan had known a day of travel would waste his last two days here he would¡¯ve gotten prepared quicker but the summons had arrived earlier than he had expected. Thankfully the servants had packed his things and he had been ready to go, but he hadn¡¯t been quite ready to go in his mind. He had hastedly given his last goodbyes until the next time he would see the dwellers in the castle. To the kind servants and the good chefs. To the guards who protected him and to his old tutors.

    Tarkan didn¡¯t own anything he truly cherished except for a crown his mother had made for him long ago. Fashioned from pyrite, it mimicked the grandeur of the Shah¡¯s crown. Always too large, it would slip from his head onto his shoulders. Despite his frustration, he had paraded it around the castle, calling himself the Shah until Kadir had swiftly put an end to his play. Ever since that day, he had kept it hidden in his closet under layers of cloth, waiting for the day it might fit him properly. He had debated bringing it along on this journey but ultimately decided against it.

    When he returned, stronger and wiser, perhaps then the crown would rest upon his head as it should. He left it in his room, hoping no one would disturb its resting place while it awaited his return. Donning his traveling clothes, Tarkan left the castle, ushered by Hajr¡¯s Shah-Keep to make a swift exit. Outside, he found his friends and Hajr waiting for him. It was Bataar, not Hajr, who sat on the horse, signaling that Hajr would not be joining them. Bataar was to take them safely to Tidal Reach and then accompany them to Niran.

    To Tarkan¡¯s further disappointment, Esen would also be joining them to speak on behalf of the kingdom. Hajr had not sent them off empty-handed. Along with their pack, he gifted them new servants named T¨¹n, Tog, ¨¹n, Igm, Ums, and Ner¡ªtwo for each of them. He smiled as he explained this. Additionally, he provided all the books they could ever want and all the supplies needed to write back home. As if that were not enough, he assigned a Servant Knight to each of them, ensuring their protection and service throughout the journey.

    "Hajr seems to be more prepared for our departure than we are," Dimer observed flatly. Tarkan lingered by the doorway, his fingers tracing the worn grooves of the stone archway. A tightness constricted his chest as he looked back at the ramparts, their familiar silhouette stark against the twilight. He shuffled toward his horse, boots heavy on the cobblestones. None of them had, he was pretty sure, but Derya suggested that perhaps their marks were indeed a bad omen, echoing Tarkan¡¯s own worries. To Tarkan¡¯s disappointment, no one else came to bid them farewell. More citizens had gathered to watch than members of his own family.

    The Altan household had always been distant, rarely appearing throughout Tarkan¡¯s life, and they seemed to have found more important matters to attend to now as well. Kadir told him they always thought more of themselves than others, so he shouldn''t be so disappointed. Their journey began at a steady pace until Dimer and Derya were distracted by some merchants on the road. The merchants, upon seeing the heraldry on their cloaks, offered them wine for free. Bataar initially refused, but Esen had already broken open a bottle. The downside was having to endure Esen''s ¡®religious melodies¡¯ as they traveled through the night. They hardly stopped to rest, pausing only to let their horses drink. Tarkan attempted to converse with his new guard, but the guard seemed more interested in glaring at Tarkan than engaging in any meaningful dialogue. Tarkan did end up learning his name though.

    His name was Zeno, a man whose origins lay beyond these lands, as evidenced by his name, so unlike those of their culture. Zeno possessed hair as dark as a raven''s wing and eyes as cold and blue as a winter sky. He bore a greatsword nearly larger than Tarkan himself, a weapon that seemed an extension of his formidable presence. Tarkan couldn''t help but marvel at the man, silently praying they might encounter trouble on the road just to see Zeno wield the sword. But to his disappointment, their journey remained uneventful. They arrived at Tidal Reach just as dawn broke, ending their second day of travel.

    Bataar wasted no time in ushering them onto a ship of considerable size, one that seemed disproportionately large for their small group. Tarkan found no fault in this, except for the glaring absence of a proper crew. Bataar assured them they would learn to manage the ship during their voyage, but Tarkan thought this a reckless plan. Their passage across the waters promised to be challenging, even if it was to be brief. "A week''s journey," Esen declared, smiling. The ship was called Sea''s Gape, a name derived from a legend that it had once saved its crew from a whirlpool. Tarkan scoffed at the tale, but the storyteller held his tongue, casting wary glances at the Prince, too fearful to challenge his skepticism.

    When their journey commenced aboard the ship, the first few days passed quickly and without incident. However, the seas soon turned treacherous for Dimer and Tarkan, both succumbing to seasickness. The sailors offered no solace, only laughter at their plight. Angry and miserable, Tarkan longed for the solitude of his room, regretting that he hadn''t chosen to suffer in private, away from mocking eyes. One evening, forced to leave his cabin for dinner, Tarkan encountered the ship''s chef, a man with a penchant for unsettling tales. As he prepared Tarkan''s meal, the chef began his story.

    "Oh, poor chap, I must say," he began, rubbing his nose with one grimy hand before handling the bread. "There was a lad, just like you, first time on a ship. Poor soul thought he¡¯d gotten worms in his belly from my cooking. But no one gets worms from my cooking, no sir. The lad decided to stick one of me claws down his throat to rid himself of the imaginary worms." The chef burst into laughter. "The poor lad choked and died on that stick. Never did see those worms."The chef''s apron hung askew, crusted with grime. He wiped his brow with a forearm that sported a dark smear of what could have been anything. As he reached for a loaf of bread, a plump, green beetle scuttled across his calloused fingers. The chef flicked it away with a nonchalant flick, then tossed the bread onto the chopping block with a slap. He decided then to subsist on the dried meats stored in the cupboards. Dimer and Derya, upon witnessing the chef''s habits, quickly followed his lead. The chef seemed unbothered by their avoidance. On the fifth night of their voyage, they sailed past the Every-Eye Islands. Derya thought she saw a dragon in the sky, a claim that Dimer dismissed with a laugh, insisting that dragons were no more than legends.

    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    The word "anymore" that Dimer used sent Tarkan''s mind reeling back to the old stories Cem once told him. Cem had ventured to the Shattered Kingdoms, where he had witnessed a cloud so high and ominous in the sky that it resembled a true dragon.

    "It covered the sun and blotted out any hope of warm winds," Cem had said wryly, wrinkling his nose. If that encounter was the closest anyone could get to a dragon in these times, Tarkan wondered why there had ever been any at all. No bones were left of dragons, nor were their scales. The world seemed devoid of any remnants of these mythical creatures.

    A chorus of shouts, rough as the sea itself, finally pierced Tarkan''s sleep down in his cabin. He stumbled onto the deck, squinting at the gathered crew. Their usual boisterousness was replaced by a hushed reverence, a stark contrast that sent a shiver down his own spine. The land loomed ahead, shrouded in an unsettling silence. Though Tarkan saw no cause for alarm, the sailors'' fear was palpable.

    Perhaps years of whispered rumors and campfire tales had painted the isle in shades of dread. He scoffed inwardly, but the unease lingered. Tarkan, ever the pragmatist, became the first to set foot on the alien soil. The ground felt strangely cold beneath his boots, and an unsettling sensation, a prickling at the back of his mind, refused to be ignored. Was it a flicker of guilt, a tremor of foreboding? He pushed it aside, a fleeting notion extinguished by the harsh light of duty. The sailors, their initial enthusiasm dampened, unloaded the supplies with a sullen efficiency. When at last it was done they packed up and left them there making Tarkan realize Esen was here to stay as well. Now everyone stood on the island alone and abandoned in unknown lands.

    Bataar''s voice held as much cheer as scraping lichen off a rock. "We make camp here," he declared. "The three of you can remain while we prepare supplies." He barked orders at servants and knights, but Tarkan''s own sworn sword seemed more interested in honing his blade with an ancient whetstone than following commands. Dimer materialized beside Tarkan. "Enough provisions for a month," he noted. That gnawed at Tarkan. Hajr seemed to genuinely believe in their mission''s success, which now filled Tarkan with prickles of doubt.

    "Perhaps we should¡­ finish the task," Tarkan murmured, lowering his voice.

    "The order wasn''t spoken, but the intent was clear." Dimer frowned. "Little lords and high lords, they rise and fall like leaves in a storm. Stewards or knights, what''s the difference in the grand scheme? We shouldn''t dwell on it. Maybe we''ll become wardens in these new lands, Tarkan." Dimer''s optimism was a tempting melody, one Tarkan feared might lull him into carelessness. All voices held value, even naive ones brimming with childish hope.

    "He should have spoken plainly," Tarkan muttered, unease gnawing at him. A part of him wondered why he''d accepted this task with barely a murmur. Perhaps there was no way out, or maybe another part, a curious one, craved more knowledge of their target. But that curiosity hadn''t waned since the very beginning.

    "He has no doubt we''ll succeed. Let''s not falter," Dimer said with a sly grin. "Exploring the woods together holds appeal," he continued, his voice crackling with excitement. "Perhaps we''ll even encounter these Niran folk."

    "A warm welcome''s a long shot," Tarkan countered. "Blades are readied faster than words are spoken." But his caution was lost on deaf ears. Dimer whisked Derya along and plunged into the forest before Tarkan could object. Bataar''s voice, laced with annoyance, halted their progress.

    "No one leaves until we''ve assessed the safety of this place," he snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument.

    "Grant us weapons, then," Tarkan shrugged. "That should be enough to keep us safe." Bataar scoffed.

    "A weapon is useless against the Niran. Legends say they''re hulking giants of stone with eyes like embers. Think you can fight that?" Tarkan dismissed the warnings with a dismissive gesture. He summoned his sworn sword, Zeno, who emerged from his brooding with a look of annoyance. Tarkan barely noticed.

    "How about now?" he said with a forced sweetness that left a bitter taste in his mouth. Bataar snorted but only cautioned them against a lengthy or far-ranging exploration.

    Derya frowned at Bataar''s harsh words, then turned to Tarkan with a question in her eyes. She seemed to change her mind and muttered something to Zeno instead. Tarkan held his tongue, suspecting he wouldn''t like the answer anyway. "Sounds like a rushing river nearby," Zeno rumbled, interrupting the tension. "Why not waste some time there while the grown-ups get down to business?" A hint of amusement colored his words. Tarkan couldn''t recall ever seeing Zeno fight, and the man''s bravado sparked a sliver of unease.

    "Can you keep us safe? That sword looks cumbersome," Derya said as they walked towards the river. Zeno chuckled, a deep sound that echoed in the trees. "

    It moves as easy as a summer breeze." He winked, and Derya seemed satisfied. Dimer''s eyes gleamed with a touch of hero worship as he gazed at the weapon.

    "I''d love to see that in action." Zeno threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Let the foes come, boy, and you''ll witness my blade dance like a spring freshet. But when there''s no threat, I see no point in tiring myself with practice. Dull work for a sharp blade." He grinned, revealing sharp teeth. "Besides, it wears down the hilt."

    Tarkan puffed out his chest. "I didn''t necessarily need your help. Just¡­ circumstances." Zeno''s expression remained unreadable.

    "They offer protection," Zeno muttered, barely above a whisper. Tarkan pretended not to hear. Derya and Dimer raced ahead, eager to find the river. Zeno shrugged indifferently, which irked Tarkan. This was supposed to be their protector, yet he seemed unconcerned.

    "Shouldn''t you be with them?" Tarkan demanded. "What if they get hurt?" He spoke through clenched teeth. Zeno simply ignored him. Frustrated, Tarkan stepped in front of the man, blocking his path. Zeno easily shoved him aside and pushed through some brush. Tarkan hesitated for a moment, then followed through the opening. Tarkan grumbled under his breath, brushing twigs and leaves off his red tunic. A stray thorn scratched him, drawing a curse. He emerged from the brush to find Zeno settled by the riverbank, with Derya and Dimer splashing in the shallows.

    "Tarkan, join us! The water''s lovely!" Derya called out, sending a playful spray towards Zeno. He feigned annoyance with a playful scowl. Tarkan approached the stream, watching as his companions frolicked. He paused for a moment, his gaze drawn to the water. It flowed steadily, its course seemingly unchanged by the playful chaos. It navigated around rocks with a quiet persistence, always seeking its path. He knelt and dipped his fingers in the current. A serious expression settled on his face. The water, it just... kept going. Like it had a purpose, a destination. He almost muttered to himself,

    "It''s relentless. Almost ambitious, in a way." He glanced around quickly, feeling a flicker of self-consciousness. But then, with a yank on his cloak, Dimer sent him tumbling headfirst into the cool water. Tarkan sputtered and surfaced, ready to unleash a good-natured retort. But seeing the laughter on everyone''s faces, even a hint of amusement in Zeno''s eyes, he couldn''t help but grin. The tension of the journey seemed to dissipate with the cool spray. He decided to join the fun, shrugging off his cloak, tunic, and shoes to join his friends in the refreshing water.

    ¡°So you come at me?¡± Dimer said in mock challenge. Tarkan felt so incredibly stupid for their actions, when they were here to potentially train and grow stronger. Tarkan felt as if he were forgetting his goal when he splashed water towards Dimer and Dimer splashed him back. Derya only giggled. When Tarkan looked at her marked hand he realized it was still gloved and so was Dimer¡¯s. Tarkan had chosen to leave his own behind at the camp area not caring since everyone here already knew of its existence anyways. Suddenly Tarkan stopped splashing his momentarily gained joy fading away in moments.

    Tarkan''s voice dipped low. "Derya, have you sensed anything new from the mark?" Zeno, stretched out beside them, cracked open one eye to observe them with cool detachment. Derya rubbed her shoulder, a touch of nervousness in her eyes.

    "Not truly. It still thrums with power, but that''s been the case all along."

    "May I see it?" Tarkan asked, wading closer. Derya''s nervousness deepened as he reached for her hand. He peeled off the glove, the cold water sending a blush to her cheeks. When Tarkan saw the mark, a shiver ran down his spine. There was a depth to it, something Derya couldn''t quite grasp, and for some reason, it unsettled him deeply. He looked down at his own darkened hand, then back at hers.

    "What troubles you?" Dimer asked, approaching with a curious tilt of his head. Tarkan fought down the urge to flinch. The disquiet that had plagued him around Dimer had returned, sharp and unsettling. Why now?

    "When you received your mark, it seemed to cure the darkness near the lionstone," Tarkan spoke, his voice carrying across the water. Derya nodded slowly, their hands still clasped. Dimer''s eyes flickered with surprise. "Then why wouldn¡¯t it work for me?" Tarkan pressed, his gaze intense as it met Derya''s. She drew a sharp breath.

    "I- I don''t know how to control it," she stammered, her grip firm. "My mark¡­ it just reacted on its own." Tarkan brushed his marked hand against hers, a flicker of hope igniting within him.

    "Can you will this darkness away from me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Derya looked hesitant but when she saw Tarkan¡¯s eyes her resolve hardened. Tarkan squeezed her hand, a strange sensation washing over him. He felt Derya return the pressure, her eyes narrowing as she focused. Dimer could only observe, tapping his fingers against his leg anxiously. Even Zeno stood, his gaze fixed on them. The air around Tarkan crackled with energy. A fleeting vision flickered across his mind: a butterfly with a dark body and white spots like moons.

    Tarkan watched in fascination as the mark on his hand transformed. The darkness seemed to recede, drawn towards Derya''s own mark in a strange dance of energy. His grip tightened on her hand, a reflex fueled by the intensity of the moment. Derya winced slightly, but remained still. Dimer''s gaze flickered between them, a silent question hanging in the air. Tarkan''s focus burned with an unnatural intensity, his eyes locked on the shifting marks. The darkness retreated steadily, leaving behind a strange emptiness.

    When Tarkan finally opened his hand, Dimer realized with a jolt that he''d squeezed Derya''s too hard, drawing blood. Anger washed over him as he mumbled an apology. Derya dipped her hand in the stream, and to his shock, there was no mark. Dimer''s eyes widened as he looked at Tarkan, searching for answers. But Tarkan only stared at his palm, a deep frown etched on his face.

    "What happened?" Derya asked softly, concern in her voice. A slow smile crept across Tarkan''s lips. He extended his hand towards them, palm facing up. The mark had changed. Gone was the ominous darkness, replaced by a symbol that resembled a moon ¨C unassuming, yet somehow significant. Tiny specks of light surrounded it, and a faint, distant sun seemed to complete the image.

 Chapter 7|Sylas|Turukhan, Sea of Reeds, Shattered Realms|

    The camp''s relative calm shattered with the sudden announcement of battle, the minor king¡¯s desperation echoing in the urgency of his command. ''We strike tonight,'' Aerith declared, his voice a steady force amid the chaos. Soldiers scrambled to gather their gear, the metallic clink of armor and the hurried whispers of preparation filling the air. Sylas, momentarily caught off guard, found himself lagging behind the swift-moving group. Aerith, however, paused atop his mount at the rear, a wide grin breaking the tension as he waited for Sylas to catch up. To his surprise, Aerith waited atop his mount at the rear, a wide grin on his face. As Sylas rode up to him, he felt a piercing gaze on his back. One man, eyes narrowed, had been watching him since his arrival. In truth, it wasn¡¯t just him¡ªnearly everyone harbored mistrust.

    Sylas had joined on the blood of their former comrades, yet none had spoken against Aerith when he had slain his own men. This odd hypocrisy was something Sylas chose to ignore, focusing instead on his own survival. Since his joining, little had transpired. Sylas stepped cautiously through the ruins of the ancient castle, the stones weathered and crumbling under the weight of years. Ivy clung to the walls like a tenacious invader, and half-built structures stood as silent testimonies to abandoned efforts. Soldiers moved about with a practiced air of resilience, making do with tattered tents and makeshift shelters.

    The occasional clang of armor and low murmurs of conversation echoed through the deserted corridors, a stark contrast to the grandeur this place once held. Under the shadow of crumbling walls, soldiers busied themselves with routine tasks. Some hunched over campfires, stirring pots of thin stew, while others repaired torn tents with clumsy stitches. Makeshift shelters crafted from salvaged wood and cloth provided scant protection from the elements. The flicker of firelight revealed faces hardened by hardship and eyes that darted warily at every sound. Despite their rough conditions, there was a sense of camaraderie in their shared plight, a silent understanding that bound them together. The eerie silence of the deserted castle, broken only by the occasional clink of armor or murmur of conversation, mirrored the unspoken tension among the men.

    These weren¡¯t the conditions Sylas had expected, but when he saw Aerith¡¯s quarters, he understood. Even Aerith''s space, located atop the castle in a part that still stood, was minimalistic. It was clear they could abandon their belongings quickly if needed, though they hadn¡¯t yet faced that necessity. Sylas was given a spot far from everyone else on a wooden platform connected to the castle ruins where he could sleep and sit. It was all he needed. There was enough room for his swords to stand next to him, keeping a silent vigil.

    Vyra had been the only one to talk to him since he settled into the ruins. Sylas hadn¡¯t made an attempt to speak with anyone, but the girl seemed to find him annoying. She was a constant nuisance, pestering him about the smallest things. Their cook, a large man named Bro, prepared meals with little effort. The food looked as unappetizing as pig scraps. Sylas had eaten better in the desolate Sea of Reeds. The sight of that meal made him dump it straight out.

    Bro¡¯s sudden tears caught Sylas off guard, the sight of the burly cook sobbing incongruous with his rugged exterior. Awkward and unsure, Sylas scratched the back of his head, glancing around at the others. Their glares were sharp, almost accusatory, as if Bro¡¯s outburst were somehow his fault. The weight of their stares made him shift uncomfortably, his earlier resolve wavering in the face of such raw emotion. As Sylas scanned the crowd, he sensed the weight of their glares, as if they blamed him for Bro''s outburst. He half-expected to feel Aerith''s piercing gaze upon him, but the leader was nowhere to be seen. Sylas, feeling uncomfortable, made his way out of the clearing, only to be trailed by the annoying girl he learned was the captain of the sellswords, second only to Aerith in rank. Sylas paid little heed to her attempts at conversation, whether it was about joining their game nights or having dinner together. He preferred solitude, often venturing out to hunt without seeking permission. On one occasion, when he returned from a hunt with two rabbits in hand, after spending far too long in pursuit of them, the reaction of the others surprised him. Jaws dropped as they stared at him incredulously. Aerith, upon seeing the rabbits, laughed and invited Sylas to share a meal with him and Vyra. One man, named Mlyke, stood out among the onlookers, his spiky hair and sneer leaving a lasting impression on Sylas. Despite the passing of time, Sylas couldn''t shake the feeling that Mlyke harbored ill intentions towards him. The words Mlyke muttered to his friends behind Sylas''s back lingered in his mind, a reminder of the underlying tension within the group.

    "So the ''vysca'' eats with the king now, does he?" Mlyke''s words, spoken to his surrounding friends, perplexed Sylas. He didn''t understand the common tongue spoken here, but when he asked Vyra, he wished he did. ''Vysca'' was a term for a loner out in the fields of reeds, an outcast abandoned to wander the Sea of Reeds as punishment by the Gods. Though Sylas held no belief in such divine punishment, the mention of it still made his spine prickle with discomfort.

    Sylas had been journeying there for the last two years in a futile attempt to locate the ''Dragon''s Teeth'' mountain range. Despite the grandeur described in the stories, Tarkan couldn''t seem to find them regardless of which direction he ventured. No star, no map, no merchant had guided him correctly; most ended up lost like him, swiftly abandoning his company. It was no surprise that Sylas had little appetite that night.

    Sylas rode into the impending clash, his mount¡¯s hooves thudding softly against the marshy ground of the Sea of Reeds. The horizon was a flat expanse, devoid of the majestic peaks he had long sought. Instead, the landscape was a somber reflection of his own turmoil, the reeds swaying gently in a deceptive calm.

    "Our discussed tactics are simple, as they always have been," Vyra informed Sylas. She had mentioned that Aerith was the ultimate strategist, but this plan appeared to be one of the most poorly conceived and lackluster strategies ever devised. It seemed classic yet hardly feasible, especially with their horses in the vicinity. The enemy must have sensed something amiss, but Aerith''s reassuring smile somehow eased Sylas''s apprehension.

    "Do we take prisoners?" Sylas inquired of Aerith. The man''s countenance remained stoic, his eyes narrowing under the glare of the sun.

    "Their general is a traitor to our minor lord, so we must take him captive. But you are free to deal with anyone else as you see fit," Aerith replied calmly.

    "How will we recognize the general?" Sylas queried, a hint of curiosity in his tone as he absently touched the hilt of his blade.

    "He''s an ugly brute we''ve been hunting for a year. Bushy eyebrows, a mustache, and cold eyes. He wears a hat that looks like a white onion atop his head, which only adds to his absurd appearance," Aerith explained, eliciting a faint chuckle from Sylas at the mental image. Aerith turned to him with a smile.

    "Why do you ask?" he inquired, nudging his steed forward slightly. As he did, Sylas noticed a rope necklace around Aerith''s neck, a detail he hadn''t previously observed.

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    "He seems like quite the adversary. Few have survived a year with their heads intact, if the tales are to be believed," Sylas remarked, matching Aerith''s pace. As they approached the forest ahead, Aerith''s sellswords parted to allow him passage to the front, prompting Sylas to follow suit, though unsure if he had the right to join Aerith at the head of the group.

    "I and Kor''zil shall remain on foot at the opposite end of the forest, while the rest of you will proceed according to our plan," Aerith declared, drawing his sword with a fluid motion. He pointed it towards one of the smaller men in the crowd, who bore a resemblance to a dwarf but fell just short. This man had shaggy, dirty blonde hair, mismatched eyes, and a protruding tooth. "Roy, I want you to select a group to accompany you into the center of the forest, as we discussed," Aerith instructed, receiving a wink from the almost-dwarf, whose smile caused another tooth to slip out. Aerith then turned his attention to two other men. One was impeccably dressed, resembling someone attending a ball rather than preparing for battle. Armed with a cutlass that appeared to have been gilded with gold, this man was addressed as Lancel. The other man, bald with a head wrap, wore silver armor that seemed almost too heavy to bear. A claymore was sheathed at his belt. Known as Stone, his name suited him, with his steely gray eyes. Aerith directed Lancel to take the rear of the forest, while Stone was to remain at the forest''s entrance.

    "At worst, they''ll exit from the left; we''ll pursue them up until that point. Kor''zil and I will attempt to draw them away, particularly since Mehmet will likely recognize me. Hopefully, he''ll perceive it as a trap and refrain from following us into the forest. That''s why I want Vyra positioned in the trees to observe whether he''ll give chase. Once she signals, the rest of you will come to our aid from the opposite side for the battle," Aerith explained, outlining the plan. Sylas couldn''t help but feel it was the most haphazard battle strategy he''d ever heard. Recollections of his childhood surfaced briefly, memories of a man¡ªperhaps his father¡ªcrafting plans with meticulous detail, considering every aspect from the soldiers'' mounts to the blades of grass beneath their feet.

    Compared to that, this plan seemed lacking. However, if they had survived this long with such tactics, there must be some merit to it, Sylas reasoned. At the very least, he was confident he could survive the battle alongside Aerith if need be. Both were skilled warriors, far beyond the norm, and Sylas possessed a determination that would never allow him to yield. "We are the Skyguards, descending from the heavens," Aerith declared, raising his falchion into the air. His horse reared back, emitting a powerful neigh that echoed in Sylas''s ears. The sellswords before them let out fierce battle cries, a mixture of familiar and unfamiliar voices. Then, without much semblance of the organization Aerith had described, they dispersed into the forest, their hoofbeats resonating like thunder. As the three of them remained, Aerith led them around the left side of the forest instead of through it.

    "Why are we going around instead of through?" Sylas questioned, his voice carried off by the wind. Vyra rode up beside him, as though it were her sole purpose to annoy him.

    "Aerith knows what he''s doing. It''s not our place to question him," she retorted, her tone tinged with a hint of superiority. Sylas rolled his eyes and brushed off her comment, but Aerith laughed heartily, the wind barely stifling his amusement.

    "Why can''t you see I''m not talking to you?" Sylas snapped, irritation evident in his voice. Vyra shot him a glare, but she didn''t seem offended.

    "You don''t need to talk to me since you talk around me. Just so you know, I don''t see anything that says I can''t talk when you do," she replied, turning her head away with an air of haughtiness.

    "You two bicker like two songbirds," Aerith remarked, reclining on the side of his horse with his head resting against his hand. Sylas felt a mixture of confusion and embarrassment wash over him at Aerith''s observation.

    ¡°More like a falcon and sparrow.¡± Vyra chittered in. Sylas nodded his head quickly, finding himself agreeing with her for the first time.

    ¡°Well, maybe that¡¯s just true,¡± Aerith said with a grin, pulling his horse to a halt. Sylas realized with a start that they had reached the opposite edge of the forest. What had seemed an expansive breadth now appeared to be a narrow strip extending into the distance. The plan began to make sense to him: a thin forest with scattered fighters, forcing close combat and rendering many horsemen useless. Vyra¡¯s eyes roved over the empty field, her posture tense with anticipation. Sylas followed her gaze, the silence stretching between them.

    ¡°Can¡¯t you see no one is here yet,¡± he muttered, sliding off his horse with a practiced ease. His boots hit the ground with a soft thud, and he surveyed the surroundings, every nerve on edge. He felt the weight of the waiting moments, each second stretching into an eternity as they stood poised on the brink of battle.

    ¡°Get on your horses; their hooves send tremors through the Earth,¡± he said urgently, disappearing into the forest¡¯s shadows. Sylas and Vyra quickly followed suit, mounting their horses again. In the distance, Sylas saw an approaching army smaller than expected. They had brought fewer men than anticipated, but that was no disappointment to him.

    Once, Sylas had found himself in the midst of a battle that had nothing to do with him. Swords clashed and curses flew around him, yet he remained trapped. Three armies charged toward each other, and Sylas stood in the middle, gripping his swords tighter as they closed in, seemingly indifferent to the lone man caught in their path. Realizing escape was impossible, he slammed his swords together and steeled himself for the inevitable. The armies descended upon him like falcons.

    Sylas spun in a deadly circle, thrashing away attackers with fluid precision. He accepted his fate without a scream or a shout, locking himself into the rhythm of battle. Soldiers fell, only to be replaced by others as swiftly as grass grows over graves. Blades sang through the air, missing their mark as Sylas danced among the chaos, cutting men down with lethal grace. An ugly brute with a bald head swung a war hammer toward Sylas. The hammer came down with a mighty force, but Sylas blocked it, his other hand slicing through the man''s legs. The brute collapsed, screaming, as Sylas moved on, a relentless whirlwind in the heart of the battlefield.

    In the end, the battle concluded with no clear victor. Within half an hour, most troops lay dead, their banners burnt to ashes. Survivors gathered their remnants and retreated to their kingdoms, leaving Sylas alone to witness the aftermath. Sylas walked through the battlefield, the stench of blood and charred flesh assaulting his senses. Bodies lay strewn like broken dolls, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky. Smoldering fires crackled ominously, the flames licking hungrily at the remnants of fallen banners and discarded weapons. Each step he took squelched in the mud, now a gruesome mix of earth and blood. The air hung heavy with the groans of the dying, a chilling reminder of the carnage that had unfolded.Sylas, unscathed, surveyed the carnage. His sword in hand, he turned away from the desolation, resuming his journey with a silent resolve.

    That day, Sylas made a vow to himself: he would never raise a banner again. The battle had been senseless, devoid of purpose or honor. There were no stirring speeches, no calls to valor¡ªonly the cold, indifferent clash of steel against steel. It had been a frenzy of violence, each soldier driven by orders they barely understood, fighting for causes that had become meaningless in the chaos. Sylas remembered the look of fear and confusion in the eyes of the dying, their lives extinguished in a maelstrom of blood and fire.

    He had seen enough to know that such battles served no true cause, only the ambitions of those far removed from the bloodshed. As he walked through the aftermath, the air thick with the stench of death, Sylas felt a profound disillusionment. The once vibrant field was now a graveyard, bodies strewn like broken dolls, their blood soaking into the earth. He saw men he had fought against, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and pain. The ground was littered with discarded weapons, the fires crackling in the background, consuming what little remained of their fleeting existences. Sylas couldn¡¯t shake the sense of futility. All those lives lost, and for what? The banners that had once flown proudly were now nothing more than tattered remnants, indistinguishable in the charred landscape.

 Chapter 8|Dimer|Niran, Dragons Mouth|

    Days had passed without contact, and the silence was beginning to wear on Dimer. They should have met these people long ago, yet no trace of them had been found. Perhaps they had been left on the wrong part of the island? Dimer had no answers, and a gnawing fear grew that Hajr had abandoned them here to slowly die. As he stared into the crackling fire, surrounded by the familiar faces of his companions, he felt an oppressive loneliness. He glanced at his marked hand, frustration mounting. Tarkan had unlocked his mark, a moon that glowed with a milky white light under the night sky. Tarkan couldn¡¯t seem to tear his eyes away from it, often gazing at it with a wonder Dimer envied. It was as if Tarkan had found the toy he had sought all his life. Dimer, however, remained unmarked, a painful reminder of his perpetual status.

    Whenever he was summoned to the throne room¡ªwhether for a lesson, a demonstration, or some other matter¡ªDimer''s eyes were inevitably drawn to the family sword of the Altans: The Upholder. Positioned at the top of the throne, the sword could slide down to be seen by all. It was a magnificent claymore, more beautiful than even the Cragorian blade, Sky Piercer. Rubies encrusted the middle of the dark, pristine blade, its hilt crafted from the hammer of the titans, Creator. The sword bore no stains or cuts, setting it apart from all others.

    Dimer often dreamed of the day the scavengers would return, and he would be the one to take the sword from the throne, slaying all the enemies before him and saving his family. In his dreams, Hajr would grant him the sword with a smile, the greatest honor any in their family could receive. Even Hajr did not wield this sword, and Dimer never asked why he considered himself unworthy. The castle halls held no whispers of the reason, leaving Dimer to wonder.

    Only once had Dimer seen anyone wield The Upholder, and that was when Tarkan was alone in the throne room. It was nighttime, and Dimer had ventured there, perhaps hoping to sit on the throne for a moment of harmless fantasy. To his surprise, Tarkan was already there, sitting on the throne with The Upholder in his hand, its blade resting on the floor. Tarkan wore a regal cloak, looking every bit the king except for the missing crown. When he spotted Dimer, his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. He hastily dropped the sword and returned it to its rightful place.

    ¡°If it had been another man, you¡¯d be beat senseless,¡± Dimer told him at the doors. Tarkan chuckled, scratching his chin as if there were a beard there.

    ¡°Glad it wasn¡¯t,¡± he murmured, walking towards him. The fluffy cloak swayed behind Tarkan, far too large for him. The hem dragged on the floor, showing intricate embroidery and a distinctive crest that Dimer had seen before, just the previous day, draped over another¡¯s shoulders. ¡°What business do you have here, anyway?¡± Tarkan asked. Dimer blushed, knowing he would have been guilty of the same crime, yet punished far more severely.

    ¡°I¡¯d only come to look at the paintings,¡± he lied, following Tarkan out of the room. Tarkan laughed as he exited but quickly peered around for guards.

    ¡°And what fool do you take me for?¡± he mused, placing an arm around Dimer¡¯s shoulders. Dimer shrugged them off in mock offense.

    ¡°I¡¯m offended you would think such a thing,¡± he said, stifling his laughter and putting on his most kingly expression. Tarkan¡¯s smile faded as he looked at Dimer. He placed a hand on Dimer¡¯s head, his expression serious.

    ¡°The eyes of Dimer suit you better than the eyes of a lord,¡± he told him. Dimer remembered wondering why Tarkan would make such a statement and only watched, dumbfounded, as his brother walked back to his dorm, the oversized cloak trailing behind him.

    ¡°Dimer, why don¡¯t you let Derya get a good look at your hand?¡± Tarkan suggested, approaching with a smile that barely masked his eagerness. Derya glanced up from her book, her eyes narrowing slightly at the mention of her name. Dimer shrugged.

    ¡°I want to unlock it myself,¡± he replied, determination evident in his voice. Tarkan rolled his eyes dramatically, his hand covering his face.

    ¡°Are you afraid of asking help from a girl?¡± he teased, his tone light. Dimer¡¯s response was swift¡ªa playful punch to Tarkan¡¯s shoulder, sending him into fits of laughter. Derya, unimpressed, returned to her reading.

    ¡°What book are you reading, Derya?¡± Dimer asked, his curiosity piqued. Tarkan¡¯s laughter subsided into chuckles. She closed her book, regarding him with a skeptical look.

    ¡°Are you genuinely interested, or just trying to make up for Tarkan¡¯s lame joke?¡± she inquired.

    ¡°Of course I¡¯m interested. You know men also read, right? Now you¡¯re no different than he is,¡± Dimer said, gesturing towards Tarkan, who had sidled up next to them. Bataar, frustrated, slammed his fist into the ground with a thud that echoed through the camp.

    ¡°Do you three do nothing but squabble?¡± he snapped, his irritation palpable. Tarkan, attempting to stifle his remaining laughter, placed a finger on Dimer¡¯s lips in a mock gesture of silence.

    ¡°You hear that, Dimer? Shut your mouth,¡± he said sternly. Dimer pushed his hand away, muttering an apology. Bataar rolled his eyes and turned back to his task, the smell of freshly caught fish wafting through the air.

    ¡°If we don¡¯t start hunting now, we¡¯ll finish all the dried food. Then we¡¯ll be dead and tired,¡± Bataar grumbled, poking at the fire. Tarkan had assured him they would find the Nirans before that happened, but Dimer¡¯s optimism had long since faded. The oppressive silence of the island gnawed at his spirit, making their isolation feel like a slow, creeping doom.

    ¡°It¡¯s two hands,¡± Derya said, her fingers tracing the indentations of the title. Dimer felt a flicker of recognition, as if he had encountered the story before but couldn¡¯t place where.

    ¡°Is it about¡­ my hands?¡± Tarkan quipped. Derya and Dimer both stared at him, their expressions blank and humorless.

    ¡°Your joke made Bataar¡¯s fish dry,¡± Zeno remarked dryly, not looking up from his whetstone. Tarkan huffed, his face flushing with irritation as he turned to glare at Zeno.

    ¡°I don¡¯t remember asking you,¡± he snapped. ¡°Go get Ner and Tog and tell them to bring me some of the dried meats and a book as well. Now that I think of it, make them ready me some tea as well. I might as well indulge myself, shan¡¯t I? Bring them to the Sharpened Stone we spotted.¡± Tarkan¡¯s voice carried an air of self-importance that made Dimer cringe. Zeno rose reluctantly, his movements slow and begrudging. He didn¡¯t voice any complaints, but the weary roll of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders spoke volumes to Dimer. The unspoken irritation hung in the air, as palpable as the smoke from Bataar¡¯s fire.

    ¡°Well, what is this book actually about?¡± Dimer asked, dismissing Tarkan¡¯s poor joke. Derya smiled, a light kindling in her eyes as she thought about the book.

    ¡°When Altan first declared himself king of his people, he said that the kingdom was like a person and a person always has two hands. He believed the hands should serve the realm, speak on its behalf, and cup their hands to the mouth to let the king hear their words. So, Altan decided that he should have two hands instead of just one,¡± Derya explained, her voice tinged with admiration. Dimer scratched his head, puzzled.

    ¡°Why did he think putting two people at such a high level of power would ever work?¡± Derya brushed her hair back with her hands, the droplets of sea water catching the light and making her hair shimmer.

    ¡°Maybe he didn¡¯t. Maybe it was just a test to see if it could work, but he did it nonetheless. The answer isn¡¯t clear; there are too many sources that say different things, and none can be trusted,¡± she replied.

    "So we just don¡¯t know?" Dimer asked, his tone tinged with frustration and a hint of resignation. She nodded, her brow furrowed in contemplation. Dimer sighed heavily, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon him like an unyielding force.

    "So what then?" He implored, turning his gaze towards Derya, seeking solace in her wisdom. Derya sighed, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the ocean met the sky, lost in the depths of her thoughts.

    "Their names were L¨¹go and ?no?u," she began, her voice carrying the weight of centuries-old tales. "L¨¹go, the righteous one, and ?no?u, the self-interested one." Dimer couldn''t help but wonder about the men behind the legends, their lives distilled into simple dichotomies of virtue and vice. He imagined their faces, weathered by time and strife, their stories lost to the annals of history until resurrected by the ink of scholars long after their passing. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. "One day," Derya continued, her voice soft yet resonant, "while Altan was away from his realm, most likely in a war near the Cragorian¡¯s Heaven¡¯s Throne, a legendary beast came to the lands. They say it was a dragon that wielded lightning." Dimer scoffed incredulously, his skepticism warring with the allure of ancient tales.

    "Are you sure this story is trustworthy?" he questioned, his doubts lingering like shadows in the fading light. Derya''s response was measured, her faith in the narrative unwavering.

    "It''s written by Tumuni Munum, the renowned Teyli who translated all those books written in the Forgotten Tongue," she explained, her words carrying a weight of authority. "Well, one day L¨¹go¡ª" Derya''s words were abruptly cut short by the frantic arrival of Ner, Tarkan¡¯s servant, crashing through the underbrush with panicked urgency. She stumbled to the ground crying out in fear. Almost immediately Dimer found himself moving towards the servant girl but Bataar was already there clutching her arm.

    "Explain what happened!" Bataar boomed, his voice laced with concern. Ner trembled, tears welling in her eyes.

    "There was a stranger," she choked out, her voice thick with fear. Derya reached out, gripping Ner''s shoulders tightly.

    "Where is Tarkan?" she demanded, her own voice trembling.

    "Taken," Ner whispered, her gaze darting nervously. Bataar''s frustration ignited. He slammed his fist against the ground.

    "Where was Zeno?" he roared. Ner shook her head.

    "He mentioned retrieving supplies from the camp, but then vanished." Suddenly, N¨¹men and M¨¹nil emerged from the trees, Derya and Dimer''s protectors. They rushed over, alerted by the commotion.

    "What''s wrong?" N¨¹men inquired, his brow furrowed.

    "Tarkan is missing," Derya blurted, her voice tight with worry. Bataar scanned the area, his expression grim.

    "Esen''s missing too, isn''t he?" A heavy silence descended. Dimer''s heart pounded in her chest. Why were they so scattered at this critical moment? Dimer knelt before Ner, her gaze unwavering.

    "Who took Tarkan?" He pressed gently. Ner hesitated, then spoke in a hushed tone.

    "He was...unfamiliar. Tall, with rock like skin and hair the color of snow." Dimer''s breath caught. A horrifying realization dawned on her.

    "So they were here," Bataar muttered, his voice laced with dread. He swiftly grabbed his sword, the metal glinting in the firelight. "We will find him," he growled, his determination etched on his face. "And we bring him back." Derya''s jaw clenched.

    "I''m coming," she declared, her resolve unwavering. Bataar shook his head not leaving anything for debate.

    ¡°You two will stay here. We are as discoordinated as it is. You must not leave this camp lest my head will be gone.¡± Dimer was frustrated but another look at Derya told him that she didn¡¯t plan on listening to anything he was saying. When the three knights were gone both Dimer and Derya picked up a sword from one of the large boxes that were on the shore. Ner¡¯s eyes grew wider and she leaped forward to Dimer grabbing him by his tunic.

    ¡°Please do not leave me my lord!¡± She cried, clutching it tightly. ¡°What if they come here and take me?¡± She fretted. Dimer gently removed her hands from his tunic.

    ¡°I doubt they will come here or know we are here. It is just one man so calm yourself. These are not scavengers we deal with.¡± She pulled her hand back, shaking.

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    ¡°What if they are?¡± She murmured quietly as he and Derya entered the forest. It gleamed brightly despite the bushy foliage above them and they found their way easily to the Sharp Stone but made sure to stay hidden from Bataar and the two knights.

    ¡°Gods forbid I knew this would happen. Everytime I said it none of those bastards listened.¡± Seethed Bataar. Both their sworn swords looked each other in the eye as if they knew they would be getting the brunt of his anger.

    ¡°What if we split up ser?¡± Suggested M¨¹nil helpfully. Bataar glared at him as if he couldn¡¯t have suggested anything more foolish.

    ¡°Speak when you have something important to say.¡± He said, turning back from the stone. ¡°We will go this way together.¡± He said. ¡°Footprints lead this way.¡± They disappeared into the forest again, Bataar''s angry mutterings lost in the thick foliage. When Dimer and Derya emerged they realized on the ground was a wooden cup and some fallen meat but no book it seemed.

    ¡°Let''s go the other way, we may find luck there if they can¡¯t from here.¡± Derya suggested to him. Dimer nodded agreeing with her. The both walked through the foliage and as they did Dimer noticed something on the ground. It was a footprint in the moist earth. He knelt down pushing the leaves off it and realized they started abruptly. When Derya spotted it as well they both knew they were on the right track.

    ¡°Did that man lay a trap for us?¡± Dimer said, confused. Derya looked worried as well.

    ¡°That means they knew about us and there could be more than one right now hunting us.¡± Her statement didn¡¯t make him feel any better. There was an abrupt noise near Dimer and when he turned around he realized it was Zenon. Before he could say anything Derya punched him straight in the chest. He looked at her unfazed.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± He asked, almost confused. She glared at him furiously.

    ¡°What were you doing when Tarkan was being taken?¡± She screamed at him. Zeno looked around his eyes wide and put his fingers to her lip.

    ¡°Quiet yourself you fool.¡± He snapped at her. When she slapped his hand away he spoke again. ¡°I followed hiim to their camp. They¡¯re not many people but I will admit they¡¯re large. I assume they are the Nirans we came here for. A stony gray and all sorts of hair colors. There''s a little girl there, and another more comely one I must say.¡± He said snickering and Derya kicked him in the groin to which Dimer did not object.

    ¡°Could you be serious for two seconds?¡± Snapped Derya. He shrugged, seeming unapologetic.

    ¡°Well then there were four more men. Tarkan is there as well. They tied him up with some rope but that largest of them, one with red hair spotted his mark and now they have him just tied to a log and hes unable to move.¡± Dimer could imagine that and almost found it amusing but dared not laugh afraid of what Derya might do.

    ¡°Then take us there¡± Derya demanded him. He shook his head.

    ¡°Where are the other knights? We must go with them since those aren¡¯t regular beings. If they were it¡¯d be no problem for me.¡± He stated matter of factly. Derya shrugged.

    ¡°Okay don¡¯t come. Come Dimer we¡¯re leaving.¡± She turned and began to walk in the direction Zeno came from. The sworn knight sighed frustrated.

    ¡°You don¡¯t even know where their camp is.¡± He told her.

    ¡°Then you should come and show us.¡± Derya told him to turn back again. He stared at her, seeming to wrestle with his own thoughts and his duties before sighing heavily and moving to show them the way.

    ¡°Did you see Esen there?¡± Dimer asked Zeno, trying to mask the unease in his voice. Zeno shook his head.

    ¡°Actually, I haven¡¯t seen that god freak in a while now that you remind me. Wonder what happened to him.¡± Dimer¡¯s heart sank at Zeno''s casual words. Esen might have been odd, but on this desolate island, even his peculiar presence would be a comfort. He silently cursed Zeno for planting that seed of worry. Derya''s face reflected the same concern that gnawed at Dimer¡¯s mind.

    ¡°Did you see him there? If not, then he is probably still alright somewhere. Perhaps just lost,¡± she said, attempting to reassure them. But Dimer could tell her words were more for her own benefit than anyone else¡¯s. The group continued in silence, the uncertainty gnawing at them. Every rustle of leaves seemed louder, every shadow more menacing. Their steps grew more cautious, breaths becoming shallow whispers against the dense foliage. Zeno halted abruptly, lifting his hand in a signal for silence. He slipped through the briars ahead, disappearing momentarily.

    Dimer exchanged a worried glance with Derya, the unspoken dread clear in their eyes. When Zeno reemerged, he jerked his head, indicating they should follow. Pushing through the briars, they found themselves concealed behind a thick bush. Dimer peeked through the foliage and stifled a gasp. There were nine of them, towering over any human Dimer had ever seen. Their skin was like stone, hues of grey and slate that seemed to absorb the light. Their hair varied in shades of black, white, and red, cascading down their shoulders like wild manes. They stood around Tarkan, who was bound between two trees, his arms wrenched painfully behind him. A gag stretched from ear to ear, silencing any attempt he might make to call out.

    ¡°Looks like they changed his prison,¡± Zeno muttered softly. Dimer glanced at Derya, feeling a tremor run through him. The rage in her eyes was palpable, her fingers curling into her thigh with such intensity he feared she might draw blood. He shared her anger; seeing his brother bound and humiliated ignited a fire within him. This mission had been a folly from the beginning.

    ¡°What¡¯s the chance his mark is true and not just some stupid drawing?¡± asked a black-haired figure clad in a white robe.

    ¡°It glows dully, no mistaking it. It¡¯s real,¡± another replied, his tone grim. The red-haired one grabbed Tarkan¡¯s chin, lifting it to meet his gaze. He removed the band from Tarkan¡¯s mouth, and Tarkan licked his lips, testing his voice.

    ¡°Tell us, boy. What business do you have on our land?¡± the man demanded, eyes narrowed. Tarkan smiled, though his voice was edged with weariness.

    ¡°We came looking for you, but I must admit I thought you would be a lot more friendly.¡± The man raised a brow, but before he could respond, a woman stepped forward and struck Tarkan across the face.

    ¡°You bastard! Have you come to kill us all again?¡± she screamed, her fury unrestrained. A blue-eyed man restrained her, pulling her back. Tarkan looked up, his hair falling in disheveled strands over his face.

    ¡°Again?¡± he echoed, genuine confusion in his voice. Dimer felt Derya shift beside him. She was poised to leap out, but Zeno''s iron grip on her arm held her in place. She gritted her teeth, glaring at Zeno but obeying his silent command.

    ¡°What is your name?¡± the red-haired man asked once more, his voice a shade softer but still commanding.

    ¡°Tarkan,¡± he replied, his wariness evident.

    ¡°What heraldry do you bear, if any? On whose authority do you come?¡± the red-haired man demanded.

    ¡°On the authority of Hajr Altan. I bear the goat of our house,¡± Tarkan replied. The man''s eyes widened, and he grabbed Tarkan''s face, pulling him closer.

    ¡°You say Altan?¡± he spat, fury igniting in his gaze. Dimer''s heart skipped a beat. What had Hajr done to these people to provoke such rage? His brother blinked, holding his silence until the man released him.

    ¡°I bear no ill will and do not know who any of you are. We came here in hopes of peace.¡±

    ¡°We?¡± echoed a short-haired one, suspicion thick in his voice. Zeno jerked his head, signaling them to fall back into the shadows. Dimer''s pulse quickened; every step backward felt like a retreat from hope. At that moment, another girl came running from the other side of the shore. She was short, clad in a simple dress, her hair a striking shade of purple. Zeno stopped in his tracks.

    ¡°Aelar, who is that?¡± she cried, rushing up to them. The red-haired man, Aelar, glared at her furiously.

    ¡°I told you to stay there. This man is far too dangerous,¡± he growled. The white-robed man picked her up, his expression stern.

    ¡°This boy you see here is far too dangerous. When we deal with him, you can come back,¡± he told her. She looked uncertainly at Tarkan, who offered her a kind smile. The white-robed man called for the woman who had struck Tarkan, naming her ¡°Rhea.¡± Rhea took the girl and walked away, but not without spitting in Tarkan¡¯s face. Dimer''s fists clenched at the sight. He hated seeing Tarkan like this, humiliated and bound.

    ¡°I wish I knew why all of you hated me so much,¡± Tarkan said, his voice genuine. Aelar looked down at him, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think he lies,¡± said the one who had taken the girl away. ¡°He seems to speak the truth.¡± The white-robed man considered his words, his expression thoughtful as he studied Tarkan. Dimer''s mind raced. Why did these people hate them so much? What ancient grudge did they hold against the Altans? He glanced at Derya, her eyes narrowed with fury. Her fingers were digging into her thigh, a silent testament to her restrained anger. She was barely holding herself back, and he feared she might lash out any moment. Aelar''s reaction to Hajr Altan''s name was alarming. The rage in his eyes was unmistakable, and Dimer felt a chill run down his spine.

    What history did these people have with the Altans? What grudge did they bear? When the girl arrived and was swiftly taken away by Rhea, Dimer''s thoughts were a whirlwind. Her contemptuous spit at Tarkan only added to the mystery. What had the Altans done to earn such hatred? He wanted to rush out and rescue his brother, but he knew it would be suicide. They were outnumbered and outmatched. All he could do was wait and hope for an opportunity. He glanced at Derya again, her face set in grim determination. They needed a plan, and they needed it fast.

    The white-robed man''s gaze lingered on Tarkan''s mark, his eyes tracing its intricate lines with a mix of fascination and suspicion. Dimer observed the subtle shift in Aelar''s demeanor, noting the way his brows furrowed slightly, as if wrestling with an internal debate. Aelar''s voice was measured as he spoke, each word carrying the weight of uncertainty.

    "And you¡¯re never wrong about a lie," he confirmed, his tone betraying a hint of skepticism. Tarkan''s laughter rang out, echoing through the tense air like a discordant melody. His fingers unfurled, revealing the mark etched into his flesh. It glimmered faintly in the dappled sunlight, a mysterious sigil against his skin.

    "Nice, isn¡¯t it?" Tarkan remarked with a grin, his bravado masking the nervous energy that thrummed beneath the surface. "I myself don¡¯t know what it does, but I do hope to find out. Our Shah, Hajr, told us you could help us with these." Dimer watched the exchange with a mixture of apprehension and intrigue, his mind racing with questions. Why was Tarkan revealing so much to these strangers? And what did they truly know about the enigmatic marks that adorned their skin? Aelar''s curiosity seemed piqued by Tarkan''s revelation, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he considered the implications.

    "Us? There are more of you here with marks?" he inquired, his voice tinged with a note of wonder. Tarkan nodded, his expression earnest.

    "Yes, one of my friends has a sun mark, and my other friend''s hasn''t appeared yet." Dimer felt a surge of anxiety at Tarkan''s openness, a nagging fear gnawing at the edges of his mind. Were they revealing too much? And what would be the consequences of their indiscretion? As Aelar pressed for more information, Dimer''s thoughts raced, his mind a whirlwind of doubt and uncertainty. Tarkan''s grin widened, his confidence unwavering in the face of uncertainty. "That''s where we hoped you''d come in," he proclaimed, his voice ringing with conviction. "An alliance, perhaps¡ªyou help us, and we help you."

    The man with the piercing green eyes spoke, his voice a low rumble that cut through the tension like a blade. "Are you trying to indebt us to you?" His words hung heavy in the air, laden with suspicion and distrust. Tarkan shook his head, his expression earnest and unyielding.

    "Quite the contrary," Tarkan replied, his voice unwavering. "We were left here by our Shah with few supplies. We don''t know how long we will stay here, but we know our goals could be mutual." His words were a plea, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between them and their captors. Aelar''s gaze shifted from Tarkan to each member of their group, his scrutiny weighing heavily upon them. Dimer felt the weight of his gaze like a physical force, his nerves thrumming with anticipation.

    "We don''t want to be killers," the white-robed man interjected, his voice soft but firm. Aelar¡¯s expression was thoughtful as he considered their words. The blue-eyed man stepped forward, his gaze piercing as he addressed Tarkan.

    "Where are your friends right now?" His question hung in the air, a silent challenge that demanded an answer. Dimer turned to find Zeno, his heart racing with a mixture of fear and apprehension. But when he looked back, both Zeno and Derya were gone, leaving him alone with his mounting anxiety. Panic threatened to overwhelm him as he scanned the surrounding foliage, his mind racing with a thousand dire possibilities. But then he saw Derya returning, her urgent gestures pulling him back from the brink of despair. With a sense of reluctant relief, Dimer followed Derya through the underbrush, his senses on high alert for any sign of danger. As they emerged into a clearing, Dimer''s heart clenched at the sight before him¡ªa scene of chaos and imminent danger.

    Zeno stood poised to strike, a knife glinting in his hand as he advanced on the young girl and her guardian, Rhea. Dimer''s breath caught in his throat as he realized the gravity of the situation unfolding before them.

    "What is your plan?" Dimer asked Zeno, his voice tinged with apprehension as he watched the unfolding confrontation. Zeno''s smile was a grim reflection of determination, his actions speaking louder than words as he moved with calculated precision. Before Dimer could react, Zeno lunged forward, seizing the girl with startling speed. The girl''s shriek pierced the air, a sound of pure terror that sent a shiver down Dimer''s spine.

    Dimer''s stomach churned with unease as he gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles turning white with tension. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest, but he knew they were teetering on the edge of desperation, their options dwindling with each passing moment.

    "Bring us Tarkan, and the girl lives," Zeno''s voice sliced through the tense silence like a blade. His words seemed a lot more like an ultimatum then Dimer would¡¯ve liked. Dimer''s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the scene unfold before him, a sickening sense of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. Rhea''s expression twisted in horror as she stared at Zeno, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. Before she could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps shattered the stillness, heralding the arrival of the other men with Tarkan walking freely behind the,.

    Dimer''s breath caught in his throat as he locked eyes with his brother. Tarkan was free? "What are you doing?" Aelar''s voice thundered through the clearing, his tone laced with fury and disbelief. The tension crackled in the air like lightning, the atmosphere thick with the weight of their collective uncertainty. Tarkan''s calm demeanor belied the turmoil roiling beneath the surface as he addressed Zeno with measured authority.

    "Let the girl go," he commanded, his voice steady despite the heavy tension. But Zeno''s gaze remained wary, his eyes darting from one man to the next as he weighed his options with cautious deliberation. Derya''s defiant stride toward the group sent a ripple of apprehension through the assembled men, her determination palpable as she dropped her sword to the ground. But her path was blocked by the white-robed man, his imposing figure casting a shadow over her with an air of silent menace. Dimer''s heart clenched with apprehension as he called out to her, his voice tinged with nervous urgency.

    "Derya, come back here," he urged, his words a desperate plea for reason in the face of impending conflict. With their allies scattered across the island and their fate hanging in the balance, Dimer knew they stood on the precipice of a perilous decision¡ªone that could spell either salvation or ruin for them all. "We will give Tarkan back," Aelar declared, his words a solemn vow tinged with wary distrust. "But after we do... all of you must leave this island. Otherwise, I will have your heads as the foundation of my reign." Now another ultimatum was made and they would have no choice but to follow.

 Chapter 9|Tarkan|Niran, Dragons Mouth|

    Almost no agreement had been reached; the air had been filled with more shouting and bitter accusations than anything productive. Tarkan questioned if the effort was worth it. Yet, finally, they found common ground with the Nirans, who consented to train them for a fortnight, and no more. Despite the grumbling of his siblings and the murmurs of discontent around him, Tarkan gladly accepted. When Bataar and the other knights arrived, the recounting of events left Bataar visibly disappointed.

    ¡°Where was Esen while all of this was happening?¡± he hissed, but no one had an answer. Tarkan suspected Esen had secretly left the island, but he had no proof. They were already a man down and needed to begin their training soon. Tarkan had no desire to waste any more time here. Convincing Aelar to spare Zeno had been challenging enough, but Tarkan took pride in his success. Zeno¡¯s actions had greatly surprised him; he had expected the man to linger in the shadows as they held him hostage, but the sworn knight had proven his loyalty in a most unexpected way. Tarkan couldn¡¯t force trust among them, but he did trust the Nirans. They were far more reasonable than he had anticipated. For one, they hadn¡¯t killed him on sight. They seemed like honorable men, and Tarkan intended to honor that himself.

    Tarkan¡¯s group decided to merge their camp with Aelar¡¯s, which lay farther away than anyone had anticipated. The journey took a grueling day, with the Nirans doing most of the heavy lifting. They demonstrated how to use vines and giant forest leaves to drag their boxes, a method Tarkan found far more enjoyable than carrying them on his back. This thoughtful gesture from the Nirans gave Tarkan hope that it would help bridge the gap between their two groups. When they arrived, Tarkan was surprised to see an impressive ship docked a bit farther off, one he resolved to inspect later.

    They settled in easily, but tensions remained high, particularly between Bataar and the knights towards the Nirans. Rhea refused to let Zeno sleep in their camp, leading to yet another heated argument. They barely reached a compromise: Zeno would sleep at the edge of the forest, far from the group. He agreed with a shrug, and Tarkan suspected he had slept in worse places. The merging of the camps was no small feat, and Tarkan knew maintaining harmony would be an ongoing challenge. Today was the beginning to their first training session, something Tarkan had been looking forward to. Everytime Tarkan only just as glanced at his marked hand he felt power course through his veins. It made his hands slightly tremble and his heart beat a bit faster.

    Tarkan walked down the beach next to his siblings trailed by their sworn knights following Aelar and Ayrn. Both the Niranis walked a way ahead of them, their heads tilted towards each other whispering unheard words. Neither of them seemed to have a mark so how was it that they would train him he wondered. Tarkan had studied every inch of them available to his eyes and had found nothing to betray a mark similar to their own, not even the blackness they all once had.

    As they walked, the sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the silence, the salty breeze tangling in Tarkan''s hair. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the sand and sea. Derya broke the silence first, her voice cutting through the rhythmic roar of the ocean.

    ¡°These... people know more about the marks than they¡¯re letting on,¡± she said, mimicking the Niranis¡¯ subtle head tilt. Her eyes flicked towards Aelar and Ayrn, who walked ahead, their heads bowed together in quiet conversation. ¡°They spoke about my mark oddly, and yours as well. The way Zayn was studying you was... unnatural.¡± Tarkan felt the weight of her gaze as she studied him. It was true. The Nirans had shown an uncanny interest in their marks. Zayn¡¯s piercing eyes had unnerved him, though he had hidden it well. The man watched like a hawk, his gaze never faltering, his demeanor relentless. Tarkan''s mind wandered to the first encounter with Zayn. The Niran''s eyes had scanned him with an intensity that felt invasive, as if trying to unravel his very soul. The memory made his skin prickle, but he shoved the discomfort aside. He knew that pushing for answers now would be futile. The truth would reveal itself in time, and impatience would only breed mistrust.

    ¡°You once said only time would tell,¡± Dimer pointed out, his voice calm and measured. ¡°Our relationship is far too unstable to question them for anything right now. Let''s stay patient and trust in the First Ones. We will figure all of this out.¡± Derya met Dimer¡¯s eyes, her defiance softening. She nodded slowly, her shoulders relaxing.

    ¡°I guess you¡¯re right,¡± she murmured, almost to herself, her gaze drifting back to the Niranis. Tarkan¡¯s thoughts swirled as he walked, the sand shifting beneath his boots. What secrets did the Nirans hold? How much did they know about the marks, and why were they so invested in their training? His mind played out scenarios, each one more intricate and shadowy than the last. The mystery gnawed at him, but he resolved to keep his focus. Both Ayrn and Aelar suddenly stopped and turned to face the group. The setting sun cast long shadows on their faces, giving them an almost ethereal appearance. Aelar¡¯s eyes scanned each of them, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

    ¡°This is where we will begin our training,¡± Aelar declared, surveying the glistening white sand with an appraising eye. His blue gaze swept over Tarkan and his siblings before shifting towards their knights. ¡°I suggest you three stand a bit farther away.¡± When none of them moved, he added, ¡°It is for their benefit, not mine.¡± Without another word, he turned and walked towards Ayrn. Tarkan glanced at the beach, its pristine expanse seeming no different from any other stretch of sand.

    ¡°What¡¯s so special about this beach compared to every other?¡± he muttered, only to realize his friends had heard him.

    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s because this beach is farther away from the camp,¡± Dimer suggested, trying to sound helpful. Despite his words, Tarkan felt his hands tremble slightly. Aelar stepped forward, ready to address them.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how the three of you got your marks, nor do I know why your marks are like they are, but I will say these few things,¡± Aelar began, his voice steady and commanding. Tarkan strained his ears, too anxious to miss a single word. ¡°To use your marks, you must have an incredible sense of willpower. Otherwise, those marks will certainly consume you.¡± Dimer¡¯s eyes widened in shock.

    ¡°What do you mean ¡®consume¡¯ us?¡± he asked, his voice tinged with puzzlement and fear. Aelar grinned, a flash of teeth that held no warmth.

    ¡°The marks are powerful, but they are not gifts given freely. They require control, discipline, and an unyielding spirit. Without these, the marks will dominate you, twist your mind, and turn your power against you.¡± Tarkan¡¯s heart pounded in his chest. The serene beach suddenly felt charged with an unseen energy, a foreboding aura that mirrored the gravity of Aelar¡¯s words. He looked at the sand beneath his feet, wondering if it would soon bear witness to their triumphs or their failures. Ayrn spoke next, his voice softer but no less intense.

    ¡°This place is isolated for a reason. Here, you will confront your deepest fears and your greatest challenges. The distance from the camp ensures that no one will interrupt or come to your aid. You must face this on your own.¡± Tarkan¡¯s mind raced. The marks had always been a source of mystery and power, but now they felt like a ticking clock, counting down to an uncertain fate. Aelar¡¯s gaze softened slightly, though his voice remained firm. ¡°You have potential, all of you. But potential is nothing without mastery. Over the next fortnight, you will be pushed to your limits and beyond. Embrace the challenge, or be consumed by it.¡±

    "Sounds easy enough, right guys?" Tarkan''s voice rang out with a gleeful optimism that was contagious. Derya rolled her eyes, feeling a slight flush creeping up her cheeks. Meanwhile, Dimer remained lost in contemplation, his gaze fixated on his mark, a familiar ritual they had all performed countless times.

    ¡°When will I unlock my mark?¡± Dimer''s voice broke the silence, almost a whisper to himself. Aelar''s response was as enigmatic as ever.

    ¡°I''ve never seen anything like that, but your marks aren¡¯t ordinary either. It could mean anything,¡± he offered, his words providing little solace. If anything, Dimer''s worry only deepened.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    ¡°So, how do we begin this training?¡± Derya interjected eagerly, her impatience barely contained. Ayrn shared a knowing glance with Aelar before letting out a soft chuckle.

    ¡°You bear the mark of the sun, yes?¡± Ayrn directed the question at Derya, who nodded in affirmation. ¡°Then command the sun,¡± he continued, his words hanging in the air, pregnant with significance. Derya blinked, her expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

    ¡°Command?¡± Both she and Ayrn echoed simultaneously. Aelar nodded in confirmation.

    ¡°When you receive a mark, you become bound to its power. It''s a perpetual struggle for dominance between you and your mark,¡± Aelar explained, his tone grave. Dimer¡¯s mind raced with questions, his brows furrowed in concentration.

    ¡°So, for me, it would be the moon?¡± Tarkan ventured cautiously. Aelar''s nod confirmed his suspicion. Dimer scratched his head, struggling to comprehend the implications.

    ¡°What powers can the sun and moon bestow upon us?¡± Dimer''s question hung in the air, heavy with anticipation. Ayrn¡¯s demeanor grew more solemn and he held his tongue. Aelar shot him a sideways glance before Dimer let out a frustrated sigh, pushing his hair away from his face.

    ¡°So, I guess I¡¯ll just command it to do¡­ what exactly?¡± Derya asked.

    "That''s for you to figure out, not me. I do not know what your marks are capable of. I can only guide you," Ayrn''s voice held a note of finality, his words punctuated by a sense of responsibility. Aelar raised his hand as if he were silencing Ayrn. A palpable tension crackled in the air between them for a moment, like lightning about to strike, but then Aelar turned back to Tarkan and his siblings.

    "Try to do what we told you while we head back. Given enough time, you will come to master these marks," Aelar¡¯s reassurance was met with a mixture of hope and apprehension. Dimer opened his mouth to voice his frustrations, but Aelar silenced him with a shake of his head. "You can force your mark to emerge, I''m sure," Aelar added cryptically, his words leaving more questions than answers. With that, both Ayrn and Aelar were gone, leaving Tarkan and his siblings to work out these marks themselves.

    ¡°Don¡¯t kill yourselves while you¡¯re at it!¡± Zeno called out in his usual nonchalant manner. Tarkan snorted, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. The sun hung high in the sky, but the moon lingered, a pale ghost against the blue, still within his reach. He glanced over at Derya, who stood with her mark extended towards the sun, her entire body taut with concentration. Dimer, on the other hand, sat down, appearing lost in his thoughts. Tarkan knew that no one could help Dimer now; he would have to unlock his mark¡¯s potential on his own. Turning his attention back to his own moon mark, Tarkan closed his eyes and imagined the moon high in the sky, a luminous orb against the darkness. Slowly, he lifted his hand, envisioning himself tracing the moon¡¯s path across the heavens.

    He didn''t fully understand how to command the moon, but he focused on the image in his mind, as if he were standing before it. In that instant, the world seemed to shift around him. A powerful wind whipped up, blurring his vision and drowning out his voice as he tried to call out. He felt his feet lift from the ground, the sensation of floating disorienting him. The wind roared in his ears, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased. Tarkan found himself suspended in a vast black void, dotted with countless tiny white stars. It was an endless expanse of night, breathtaking and terrifying in its immensity.

    Off in the distance, he saw a bright light¡ªthe sun. Confusion and awe warred within him. What had he done? Where was he? He reached out tentatively, his hand trembling as he tried to grasp the reality of his surroundings. The void felt both alien and oddly familiar, as if he had always been a part of this cosmic tableau, yet never fully aware of it.

    Panic began to rise within Tarkan, a cold, suffocating dread that tightened around his chest. He couldn¡¯t breathe. He couldn¡¯t move. He was just floating, suspended in this vast, empty void. When he turned his head, he noticed a blue sphere behind him. His jaw dropped as he recognized it¡ªthe map of their world, etched onto the surface of the globe. Was this truly their world? Turning again, he saw something white and colossal looming nearby. It could only be the moon, the celestial body he was supposed to command. Aelar and Ayrn had said nothing about such an experience during their practice. Tarkan opened his mouth to command the moon, but no sound emerged. Frustration bubbled up inside him as he tried again, only to be met with silence.

    ¡°Thou art clueless,¡± a voice echoed through his mind. Tarkan whirled around, searching for the source, but found nothing. The voice hadn¡¯t come through his ears but seemed to resonate directly within his head. The void around him held no clues, no visible source for the disembodied voice. He tried to call out again, but his voice was swallowed by the silence.

    ¡°Tis futile. Do not even attempt. Thou canst not utter words in this realm,¡± the voice continued. Tarkan furrowed his brow, frustration and confusion mounting.

    ¡°Thou knowest not even what that mark of thine doth, dost thou?¡± The voice echoed mockingly. ¡°I see... verily, I knew this would transpire, so I comprehend not why I am so taken aback.¡± A sound that was almost a laugh reverberated through the void, feeling more like a jolt of lightning to Tarkan.

    ¡°Thou shalt, in time, learn to command the moon and all that doth bow before it. But in the meantime, I think I could offer thee a small measure of assistance, could I not?¡± The disembodied voice resonated through Tarkan''s mind, dripping with an unsettling blend of amusement and authority. Tarkan''s scream was swallowed by the void as searing pain exploded within him, an unbearable sensation that burned through every fiber of his being. It was as if his very essence was being scorched, leaving him raw and exposed. And then, as abruptly as it began, the pain ceased. He looked down at his hand, eyes wide with shock, only to find his mark gone.

    Panic surged through him, his heart pounding as he swung his arm furiously, desperate to find the vanished symbol. His mind raced, a whirlwind of confusion and fear. The voice¡¯s words echoed in his head, taunting him with their cryptic promises. Was this part of the training? Was this some twisted test? Tarkan forced himself to calm down, taking deep breaths despite the suffocating silence of the void. He had to think, to understand. He focused on the voice, trying to extract any semblance of meaning from its enigmatic words.

    ¡°Worry yourself not. Thy mark rests upon thine eye. Now thou shalt see the world as never before,¡± the voice intoned, each word vibrating through Tarkan''s skull like a tolling bell. The light chuckle that followed was like a crack of lightning, jarring and disorienting. Suddenly, he was propelled away from the moon, the void spinning and collapsing around him as he hurtled towards the blue sphere of his world. The sensation was dizzying, a maelstrom of light and shadow that left him breathless. He closed his eyes against the chaos, bracing for impact. When he opened them again, he found himself lying on the familiar sand of the beach, the camp''s tents and fires flickering around him. He rubbed his aching skull, a headache pounding behind his eyes. As his vision cleared, he saw Zayn standing over him, disbelief etched across his face.

    ¡°Why am I here?¡± Tarkan groaned, the effort of speaking making his head throb even more. Zayn stepped forward, his expression shifting from shock to a mix of concern and curiosity. He grabbed Tarkan¡¯s chin, tilting his head up to meet his gaze.

    Zayn could scarcely believe his eyes. The boy''s mark had shifted to his eye, transforming it into something otherworldly. Encircling it was a ring bisected by a line, and Tarkan¡¯s right eye no longer resembled that of a mortal. Instead, it held the moon within, the sun shining distantly, surrounded by a constellation of stars. Zayn''s mind raced, recalling the ancient texts he had studied. The descriptions matched exactly¡ªthis same mark, in this same place, a symbol of history forgotten. The boy blinked up at him, confusion etched on his face.

    ¡°What has happened to me?¡± Tarkan muttered groggily, his voice thick with exhaustion. Zayn found himself at a loss for words, and even Kamil, standing nearby, watched Tarkan with wary, almost fearful eyes.

    ¡°I do not know,¡± Zayn admitted, his tone grave. ¡°Listen to and go rest your eyes. We shall discuss this later.¡± Tarkan stared at him for a moment, then shrugged, his movements sluggish with weariness.

    "You know best," he said, heading over to his sleeping area.

    Tarkan collapsed upon his bed, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. The revelations of what had just transpired were scarce, clouded by a reluctance to fully grasp their implications. Even to himself, he had to admit he was afraid. The events left him bewildered, and now his mark was gone. He rubbed his eye and blinked away the soreness, trying to make sense of the strange space he had been in.

    Was that what lay beyond the sky? A tinge of excitement mingled with his fear as he pondered the possibility. He didn¡¯t think he had truly lost his mark since the voice had assured him of its assistance. So then, where had it gone? No matter, he told himself. Aelar would have an answer for him when he woke up. As he lay there, Tarkan¡¯s thoughts swirled with the memories of the void and the voice that had spoken to him. Slowly but surely, his mind began to drift towards sleep. The last image that floated through his consciousness was that of the moon. It lingered in his thoughts, the way it had looked at him... as if it were afraid. The realization sent a shiver down his spine, and with that unsettling thought, he slipped into slumber.

 Chapter 10|Sylas|Turukhan, Sea of Reeds, Shattered Realms|

    Vyra had dashed off to alert their soldiers, and he was surprised to find the enemy¡¯s numbers far fewer than he had expected. Aerith, without a moment¡¯s hesitation, unsheathed his falchion and charged towards the enemy, his red-golden hair streaming behind him like a banner in the wind. Sylas couldn''t help but be momentarily captivated by the sight, his gaze drawn to the thin golden rectangle of an earring that danced at Aerith¡¯s ear. Sylas roared, a thunderous sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them.

    He felt a surge of primal satisfaction, ready to dive into the fray and claim victory. But then Aerith raised his hand, signaling him to stop. Sylas pulled back on his horse¡¯s reins, sliding to a halt with a mix of confusion and disappointment. Why were they retreating? He had been so sure of their strength, his mind already picturing the swift, brutal defeat of their foes. As Aerith turned and sprinted towards the forest, Sylas followed, his thoughts a whirlwind of frustration and doubt. His previous defeat, the cold steel pressing against his neck, haunted him. Had that moment of vulnerability planted a seed of hesitation within him?

    The notion gnawed at his pride. They plunged into the forest, the dense canopy swallowing them whole. Sylas sheathed his sword, his movements precise and deliberate. The forest was a maze of shadows and thick underbrush, but both he and Aerith navigated it with practiced ease. The enemy, however, blundered in after them, their pursuit reckless and loud. Sylas could hear their curses and the snapping of branches underfoot. His senses were heightened, every rustle of leaves and distant birdcall amplified in the stillness of the forest.

    The disappointment he felt was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on him. He had wanted to prove his strength, to reclaim the sense of invincibility that had been shattered. Instead, they were playing a different game, one of strategy and patience. Aerith¡¯s figure ahead of him was a blur of movement, his confidence evident in every step. Sylas couldn¡¯t help but admire the man¡¯s composure, even as it fueled his own frustration. He wanted to fight, to let loose the storm brewing within him. But for now, he had to trust in Aerith¡¯s plan, whatever it might be.

    There was silence until there wasn¡¯t. The first screams sliced through the air as Aerith''s soldiers descended upon their enemies like hawks, dispatching them with lethal efficiency. Sylas felt a grim satisfaction watching the chaos unfold. Battle had always been his element, a symphony of violence where he could lose himself. Yet, amidst the frenzy, Aerith halted his horse and approached Sylas with a sense of purpose. "Go and search for the commander. Capture him and abandon the battle to find me," Aerith ordered, his voice cutting through the din. Before Sylas could question him, Aerith spurred his horse away from the battlefield, leaving Sylas momentarily stunned. Where could Aerith be going that was more important than this fight? Frustration bubbled within him, but he had no time to dwell on it.

    He turned his horse toward the source of the blood-curdling screams, determined to follow his orders. The forest seemed to close in around him, the path narrowing as dead bodies began to litter the ground. Each corpse was a silent testament to the brutal efficiency of their assault. Sylas pushed forward, his senses heightened, searching for any sign of the commander. He felt a twinge of excitement mixed with anger¡ªhow dare Aerith leave him in the dark like this? Finally, he spotted the commander. The man was a hulking figure, his broad shoulders and massive chest reminiscent of a tree trunk. Bushy eyebrows almost obscured his eyes, giving him a menacing, unyielding appearance. He stood alone, as if he were waiting for the fighting to end so he could resume his command.

    But this time, the fight had come to him. Sylas grinned, unsheathing his sword with a metallic hiss, but the commander hardly reacted. "Ride into the back to find the weakest, and instead, you come upon the commander," the man sneered, his voice rough and mocking. "Unless you were hunting for me." He laughed, a harsh sound that devolved into a fit of coughing. Sylas ignored the taunts, focusing instead on the task at hand. He kicked his horse into a charge, but the commander dismounted with surprising agility for his size, drawing a brutish, misshapen sword. It looked like it had been forged from the remnants of other weapons, a crude amalgamation of steel honed to a deadly edge.

    Sylas leaped from his horse, his swords descending with a thunderous crash. Despite the man''s size, he moved with surprising agility, evading the strike and swinging his own sword to meet Sylas¡¯s. Sylas narrowly avoided the blow, his body reacting instinctively. With a fierce determination, he launched a relentless assault, his swords flashing through the air. Their blades met, a clash of steel and raw power, locking them in a battle of strength and will.

    "Not bad, old bastard, but your tricks won¡¯t win you a duel here," Sylas sneered, his smile partially obscured by his thick mustache.

    "Your swords are a work of art, I must say. I will meld them into mine just the same though," he continued, his voice dripping with confidence. Sylas responded with a cackle, his eyes glinting with fierce determination. In a sudden move, he kicked out, finding the man¡¯s weak point and forcing him to one knee. The man¡¯s sword clattered to the ground. Seizing the moment, Sylas flicked his wrist, aiming for the man¡¯s neck. But the commander flattened himself against the ground, grabbing Sylas¡¯s leg in a desperate counterattack. Before Sylas could react, a vicious twist sent pain shooting through his leg, causing him to stumble. He nearly dropped his sword but held on with a vice-like grip. Kicking out with his other leg, he managed only to strike the man''s helmet, his frustration mounting.

    Ignoring the pain, he swung his sword with all his might, the blade slicing through the man¡¯s helmet and into his head. A cold dread washed over Sylas as Aerith¡¯s words echoed in his mind: "Bring him back alive." He groaned inwardly, punching the ground in frustration. He turned back to the commander, who lay disturbingly still. Was it just the last twitches of a dying man? No. To Sylas¡¯s horror, the commander began to stand, cackling a ghastly tune. The top of his head was gone, exposing his brains, yet he stood, defying all reason. Sylas¡¯s mind raced. How could this be happening? He had seen many things in battle, but this?

    He fought to suppress his revulsion and fear, focusing instead on the impossible task at hand. The commander was a nightmare come to life, a horror that Sylas had to face with every ounce of courage he had left.

    "How are you still standing?" Sylas muttered, more to himself than to the abomination before him. The commander¡¯s laughter was a chilling reminder that some battles were fought not just with steel, but with the very essence of one¡¯s sanity.

    "No one dies so easily," rasped the man, his voice a grotesque parody of life. With a gruesome determination, he picked up his sword and charged at Sylas again. Sylas blocked the attack, pushing the man away with a snarl of frustration.

    "How are you still alive?" Sylas roared, his voice echoing through the forest. The man gave no response, only swinging his sword in another relentless assault. Sylas, irritated and bewildered, deftly weaved around the strike and seized the man''s arm. With a brutal tug, he yanked the arm down and shoved his fingers into the exposed brains. The man didn''t scream. He didn''t roar in pain. He merely stared at Sylas with those vacant, lifeless eyes, a macabre puppet with strings that defied comprehension. Sylas''s fingers felt the cold, slick matter within the man''s skull, a sensation that sent a shudder of revulsion through him.

    How could he be standing, let alone fighting? His mind raced, grappling with the impossibility before him. This wasn¡¯t just a battle of flesh and steel¡ªit was a confrontation with the unnatural. Sylas''s breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to maintain his composure. The man¡¯s silence, his eerie calmness, was more unnerving than any scream could have been. Sylas tightened his grip, digging deeper into the man''s brain.

    "Answer me!" he demanded, his voice cracking with a mix of rage and desperation. But the man remained silent, his body merely twitching in response to Sylas''s invasion. The absence of pain, of any human reaction, was maddening. Sylas¡¯s thoughts churned. What dark sorcery was at play here? He had seen wounds that should have been fatal, men who should have died, but this was beyond anything he had ever encountered.

    The man was a walking corpse, a nightmare made flesh. Determination hardened within Sylas. He couldn¡¯t afford to be paralyzed by fear or confusion. He had to end this, whatever it took. With a roar, he wrenched his fingers free, stepping back to deliver a decisive blow. But even as he moved, the man¡¯s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist with an iron grip. Sylas stared into the man¡¯s eyes, or what was left of them.

    "What are you?" he whispered, more to himself than to the abomination before him. The man''s grip tightened, his strength unnaturally powerful for someone who should be dead. Panic clawed at Sylas¡¯s mind, but he pushed it down. He had faced countless foes, survived countless battles. This was just another enemy, no matter how grotesque. Sylas swung his sword not holding back and cleanly shaved the man¡¯s head off and watched it roll on the floor. The man laughed again, spurting out blood.

    Sylas stood up and watched the man for a few moments as if expecting him to do something. Maybe grow out his body again but he did nothing of that sort. Feeling slightly relieved he went over to the man and lifted the part of his head that remained. He raised it up to look it in the eyes but he just glowered back at him.

    ¡°I¡¯ll remember your face boy. Death won¡¯t be light for you!¡± He raged about Sylas¡¯s ¡®coming¡¯ death. Sylas rolled his eyes and grabbed the shirt under the man¡¯s armor. He ripped it out and shoved it in his mouth so he would stop talking. Sylas placed the man on his horse and sheathed his swords across his back. For a moment Sylas¡¯s eyes hovered over the man¡¯s hideous abomination of a sword but decided against it. The man did gratefully shut up and Sylas mounted his horse getting prepared to head back to Aerith. He kicked his horse and rode through the tight forest trees to where Aerith had exited the forest.

    Blind swords swung at Sylas as he navigated the chaotic battlefield, each strike falling short as his comrades deftly intercepted the blows. He heard someone call his name and turned, only to narrowly avoid a sword slicing through the air in front of him. Frustration flared within him as he spurred his horse forward, breaking free from his attackers. He had no idea where to look for Aerith now or how he was supposed to find him. The battlefield was a labyrinth of chaos and death. Sylas slowed his horse, guiding it out of the forest¡¯s dense underbrush, and scanned the landscape for any sign of Aerith.

    He sighed heavily, his thoughts a jumble of confusion and frustration. The head of the undead commander hung at his side, its dull eyes staring up at him. Sylas gave it a rough shake, but it hardly reacted. Was it truly dead? Could he ever know for certain?  Half of his head had been obliterated, and then he was decapitated¡ªyet he had spoken. How? Sylas scratched his cheek, his mind churning with questions. The gruesome scene replayed in his thoughts. How could the man have survived such injuries? Was it some dark sorcery that reanimated him, or was there another force at play? He had seen many horrors on the battlefield, but this was unlike anything he had ever encountered.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "Kor''zil!" The barked name sliced through the dust. Sylas spun in his saddle, disbelief widening his eyes as Aerith materialized from the haze behind him. Sweat slicked Aerith''s usually composed face, and a deep crease carved itself between his brows.

    "Thought you went west," Sylas managed, his voice hoarse over the desolate landscape. Aerith snatched his horse''s reins, his grip surprisingly tight. His emerald eyes, normally cool and assessing, burned with a frantic urgency Sylas had never witnessed.

    "Their leader?" Aerith''s voice was a low growl. Sylas reached into his satchel, the weight of the unknown clinging to the contents. He produced a strange head. Aerith''s face contorted in a snarl hotter than any sun on this unforgiving planet. He ripped the head from Sylas''s grasp and flung it aside with a clatter. "Alive!" he roared, the veins in his neck bulging. "I said bring it back whole!" Sylas blinked, unfazed by the outburst.

    "It was," Sylas said, his voice flat. "Moments ago." The artifact lay on the barren ground, a silent testament to a forgotten power. Yet, moments before, Sylas could have sworn... Aerith''s companions stumbled out of the ruins, faces etched with exhaustion and bewilderment.  Marks of their arduous journey marred their bodies. Sylas scanned the group, a cold dread pooling in his stomach. The three leaders ¨C ever boastful, ever arrogant ¨C were absent.

    "What do you mean, ''alive''?" Aerith spat, his voice laced with disbelief and a tremor of something primal. Sylas met his gaze, a horrifying truth settling in his gut.

    "It just...was. Like nothing could harm it." The words came out hollow, devoid of the terror that had gripped him moments before. Aerith sucked in a harsh breath, his eyes squeezing shut for a fleeting moment. When they opened, they were cold and distant.

    "We leave. Now!" The command echoed across the clearing. The remaining companions, their faces etched with a mix of grief and grim determination, began to gather their belongings. No one questioned the order. No one lingered to investigate further. Part of Sylas yearned to ride beside Aerith, to break through the wall that had descended between them. But reason held him back. Instead, he drifted to the side, his gaze sweeping over the strange landscape.  Whispers seemed to rise from the dust ¨C a symphony of secrets.  Amidst the desolation, a flicker of hope ¨C Vyra.  She emerged from the ruins, relatively unscathed, a beacon of determination in the growing mystery. Finally, Sylas spotted them ¨C the three commanders ¨C at the head of the retreating column, arrogant and unscathed.

    When they returned to their camp after what seemed like an eternity everyone collapsed into their own little groups again. Sylas once again got off of his own horse and dragged himself back into his own bed, feeling tired and worn out. He placed his curved swords upright again lied down against the ruined walls of the castle. For some odd reason Sylas felt lonelier than he ever had in his life. He¡¯d spent years as a traveler of the world and never felt this lonely in his life. Yet today something felt more different. The sight of those soldiers fighting side by side. Their struggles apparent on their faces, all of them fighting for one reason or another. It affected him more than he realized.

    Perhaps it was because Sylas had never actually seen a real relationship. Maybe that was why he felt so affected. He placed a hand over his face. There was no mirror around him so he had no other idea how his face was shaped at that moment. Perhaps he was wondering a little too much. Or maybe it was some other emotion he was unfamiliar with. Sadness? No. Sylas didn¡¯t remember anytime he¡¯d felt sadness because of another person. Maybe one time someone had stolen his game but he got it back after a moment.

    ¡°Kor¡¯zil.¡± Sylas craned his neck over to see who said his name. It was Lancel, one of the commanders in the battle. He appeared to be fine with no cuts on him. Sylas gave him a knitted brow and the man chuckled a little revealing a little fur bag to him that he shook. ¡°May we eat together?¡± He said, offering a kind smile. Sylas didn¡¯t reject him but nor did he agree yet the man made space for himself right next to Sylas. He took out the food from the bag which was a wheel of cheese and bread. Nothing else.

    ¡°Very dry,¡± Sylas observed wryly, eyeing the food with distaste. Lancel chuckled, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

    ¡°Well, Master Aerith is still waiting for his payments from the Minor King. When that happens, perhaps our tongues will be better satisfied.¡± Lancel¡¯s eyes remained fixed on the bread as he spoke. He grabbed a piece, pried it open, and placed half a wheel of cheese inside. With a casual grace, he held it out to Sylas, an offering. Sylas stared at the man¡¯s outstretched hand, a rare gesture of camaraderie. How many hands had been offered to him with genuine intent?

    ¡°What do you want?¡± he asked, his voice edged with suspicion. Lancel didn¡¯t waver. He extended his hand further until Sylas finally accepted the bread.

    ¡°I only wanted to speak to you after the battle. It was your first, and I wanted to know how you were holding up. I hear you fought their commander?¡± Lancel¡¯s tone was conversational as he made himself a similar bread and cheese sandwich. Sylas nodded slightly.

    ¡°Yes, Aerith told me to hunt him down and bring him back alive.¡±

    ¡°And yet, I see no dead body,¡± Lancel murmured before taking a bite of his bread. Sylas¡¯s gaze darkened, drifting away momentarily.

    ¡°Yes, I killed the man,¡± he admitted, though the words felt hollow. Who would believe him if Aerith didn¡¯t?

    ¡°That¡¯s quite alright, I think. Master Aerith will get over it in a day or two. Perhaps there was an extra reward in it, but it¡¯s fine.¡± Lancel gave him a sly smile. ¡°Master Aerith wouldn¡¯t tell you that because he wouldn¡¯t want you to feel bad for us.¡±

    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s just... quite alright with me,¡± Sylas murmured, letting his head rest against the cool stone wall. Lancel waved his bread around theatrically before taking another bite.

    ¡°I thought you wouldn¡¯t care,¡± Lancel said, swallowing his mouthful. ¡°You don¡¯t have any reason to, of course, so I cannot resent you for it.¡± Sylas furrowed his brow, unsure where Lancel was going with this. ¡°You should come down sometime. I know Commander Vyra tries to get you to join us, but you reject her every time. Why is that?¡± Sylas sighed, contemplating if he should entertain this conversation at such an hour.

    ¡°Well, like you said, I don¡¯t have any reason to.¡± Lancel nodded, seemingly satisfied with the response.

    ¡°But how would you get a reason any other way? Or is it just that you do not wish to?¡± His tone was probing, curious. Sylas took a bite from his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully.

    ¡°Will you bore me anymore?¡± he asked, groaning slightly. Lancel lifted his hands in a gesture of apology.

    ¡°Forgive me. I am only curious and will leave soon.¡± Sylas¡¯s eyes wandered over the man¡¯s fine clothing, a stark contrast to their surroundings.

    ¡°Why is it that you are dressed so well? And why do you have such a nice sword all the way out here?¡± Sylas asked, mildly curious. Lancel smiled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve explained this tale to someone. I¡¯m glad it was you. Perhaps we will grow closer together?¡±

    Sylas scoffed, not entirely convinced. ¡°Let¡¯s learn, shall we?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m the son of an ex-king from a king once around these lands, you know,¡± Lancel began, his voice taking on a darker tone. ¡°One day, everything came crashing down because of another foolish war my father dragged us into.¡± He paused, eyes distant. ¡°I watched the castle walls crumble before my eyes. I left with only this suit and cutlass, ready to fight my enemies. That¡¯s when I met Master Aerith.¡± A small smile played on his lips as he closed his eyes, lost in the memory. ¡°His white hair shimmered in the light. His army was smaller then, but he looked no less a king.¡±

    ¡°White hair? He has red hair now,¡± Sylas pointed out. Lancel shook his head slowly.

    ¡°In those days, Master Aerith had white hair. Over time, it turned red. Why? Well, none of us can say.¡± Sylas shrugged, accepting the answer. ¡°I did love my father and mother,¡± Lancel continued, his voice softening. ¡°I was devastated to find out they had died.¡± He let out a bitter laugh, covering his face as if to hide his vulnerability. ¡°If only he hadn¡¯t been so ambitious,¡± he murmured. Sylas watched him, feeling a swirl of conflicting emotions. He couldn¡¯t empathize with Lancel¡¯s loss, having never experienced such devastation. All he had were his two blades, and nothing more. Lancel wiped a tear from his eye, his voice becoming hoarse. ¡°I must apologize. I don¡¯t want to be like this in front of you.¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t concern me much,¡± Sylas said, his tone indifferent, but Lancel seemed to take it as a sign of assurance.

    ¡°I thank you. Perhaps I came here to talk to you for myself. Why¡­ I am quite the selfish man, aren¡¯t I?¡± Lancel mused. Sylas had met selfish men before and didn¡¯t think Lancel fit the mold. ¡°Do you want me to continue, or would you like to rest now?¡± Lancel asked. Sylas was tempted to end the conversation but his curiosity about Aerith got the better of him, so he nodded. ¡°I¡¯m glad,¡± Lancel whispered softly. ¡°When I first saw Master Aerith, perched upon his horse so gracefully, I charged at him. But I fell to the ground, too weak. My cutlass slipped from my hands. Yet, he got down from his horse.¡± Lancel¡¯s hand tightened around his knee, his eyes narrowing slightly. ¡°He picked up my gilded cutlass, placed it back in my hand, and challenged me to a duel, quite similar to you. He laughed suddenly, a bold, hearty sound. ¡®If you win, you can kill me, but if you lose, you are sworn to me,¡¯ he said. Well, you can see how that turned out.¡±

    ¡°If you loved your parents so much, why didn¡¯t you kill him?¡± Sylas asked, his voice curious. Lancel shrugged, looking up at the stars before meeting Sylas¡¯s gaze.

    ¡°I think I am an honorable man. Aerith gave me a chance to reclaim my honor and rebuild my life, something my father¡¯s ambition had taken away.¡± He sighed deeply, a mix of resignation and gratitude. ¡°Sometimes, loyalty is forged in the strangest of fires.¡± Sylas nodded thoughtfully, understanding a bit more about the man before him, and perhaps even about himself. "And Master Aerith was different. He never showed me the interest he shows for you, yet... you crave that attention from him. He is a man of charm like no other. Like the heroes the bards sing about in songs." Lancel leaned forward, his hand reaching out towards Sylas. It took every muscle in Sylas''s body to resist the urge to slap it away. "You are in the midst of a song being sung for the first time, a new bird. Yet you have no idea, my friend." Lancel smiled, pulling his hand back as if finding ease in his presence for the first time. Suddenly, a shriek pierced through the serene sky. Lancel''s expression turned somber.

    "Who is that?" Sylas asked, not bothering to stand.

    "That must¡¯ve been Eleanor, crying for her lover, Robert." Lancel placed a hand over his chest. "Robert was quite badly wounded in the battle. The only one, gratefully, yet..." Sylas couldn¡¯t muster any feelings for the man, nor could he recall any images at the name. Lancel turned to him, seemingly for the final time, since he stood up. "That is why I tell you, friend. Do not waste your time here. Otherwise, you will live to regret never getting to know these people. Robert has left us, yet I assure you, many will as well. Do not let this time of yours go to waste." Lancel didn¡¯t wait for another word from Sylas, only turned and jumped off the platform, walking away.

    Sylas snorted, the tasteless bread and cheese crumbling dryly in his mouth as he tossed it over the ruins. A yell erupted from the other side.

    "Watch where ya throwin'' your trash!" came a snarl. Sylas couldn''t summon the energy to offer an apology. "Ah, wait a minute. This ain''t no trash! Hah! Seconds for me then, I guess." Sylas could hear the man chewing down ferociously. After he finished, he called out again. "Are ya that new fella that arrived here a while ago?" he asked, punctuating his question with a burp.

    "Yeah. What''s it to you?" Sylas called back, his tone gruff.

    "Oh, nothing, buddy. Just wondering." For a moment, they both lapsed into silence, and Sylas felt the weight of exhaustion settling in. But then the man spoke again. "I''m gonna miss old Robert. He always spoke to me when no one else did. I figure I''ll just die now without him." Sylas muttered,

    "Oh, is that true now?" "Well, you''re here now, and you just shared your food with me, so I guess I won''t go anywhere yet," the man replied. Sylas snorted and laughed.

    "You keep telling yourself that, old man," he called over to him. There was no response from the other side, just a contented sigh.

    "Oh, you young''uns. Let it be my own song, will ya?" the man grunted, muttering something inaudible. "Well, good sleepin''s now," he called to Sylas, who grunted, wondering why such a talkative man had never spoken so much before this moment.

 Chapter 11|Saori|Zoros, The Worldéˆ¥æªš End|

    "What value would our voices bring to such a small table?" Kyo demanded, her hand striking the aged wood with a resounding thud. The force reverberated through the room, drawing all eyes to him. Saori, weary from years of these endless squabbles, watched in silence. How long would this arguing persist?

    "Our voices hold greater value than you think," Emiko retorted, her eyes alight with ancestral pride. "We are the single oldest house on the Planet. Why do you belittle us?" Her words were sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. Saori leaned back, the burden of his years etched into his furrowed brow. He rubbed his temples, trying to quell the familiar ache of yet another fruitless debate. For generations, they had gathered in this dimly lit chamber, their discussions looping back on themselves, never progressing. Zoros, with its rice fields and bean farms, was their prison. Dreams of a different life faded with each passing season, and the thought of what could have been filled Saori with a profound sadness.

    "Why don''t you say anything?" Kyo''s voice dripped with scorn. "You''re our leader, yet you sit there, silent and morose. What kind of example is that for us?" Her eyes were fierce, demanding a response. Saori blinked, taken aback by the intensity of Kyo''s accusation. He paused, then nodded slowly.

    "You''re right. I must apologize." His voice was low. Emiko sprang to her feet, her chair crashing to the floor, her anger boiling over. Her eyes flashed, a mirror of their shared frustrations. They were ensnared in this cycle, bound by their history and legacy.

    ¡°You¡¯re the Emperor! Not us. Why must you be like this?¡± she groaned, massaging her temples as if the pressure could alleviate her frustration. ¡°This meeting will get us nowhere. I¡¯m leaving.¡± She didn¡¯t spare a backward glance as she stormed out, leaving only him and Kyo in the dimly lit room. Kyo, with a softness rare in these troubled times, reached out and clasped his hand in hers.

    ¡°I know she¡¯s difficult, but only her patience is gone. It will return, and then we can have a proper meeting,¡± she assured him. But her words were a thin balm for his deeper wounds. He pulled his hand away and stood up.

    ¡°Do you never tire of this? Each time you say it, I feel more disheartened,¡± he replied, a shadow passing over his face. Kyo gave him a weary smile.

    ¡°I¡¯m only doing my duty of keeping our Emperor content. Without that, where would we all be?¡± She looked at him, her eyes reflecting a shared burden. He didn¡¯t respond, merely turning away as Emiko had. ¡°We have dinner at my house! Don¡¯t forget,¡± she called after him, but he answered with only a grunt. He slid open the bamboo door, stepping out into the courtyard where gloomy skies cast a pall over the day. The promise of sunlight seemed distant, as elusive as hope. How many more days would they spend like this?

    ¡°Saori sensei!¡± came the cries he hadn¡¯t noticed before. Children surrounded him, their small hands tugging at his kimono with innocent joy.

    ¡°How did the meeting go?¡± Hiroko asked, her smile bright against the drabness of the day.

    ¡°Oh, it¡­¡± Saori stammered, unable to muster more.

    ¡°Saori sensei, can you please watch Chiyo and me spar?¡± Midori pleaded, her eyes bright with excitement. Saori chuckled, overwhelmed by the kids eagerness.

    ¡°Leave him alone,¡± came a voice as cold and sharp as a winter wind. It was Karasu. His piercing blue eyes seemed to bore into Saori¡¯s soul, and the children, sensing his presence, released their grip and muttered to themselves. No one dared to defy Karasu. The night-haired boy turned on his heel.

    ¡°Come with me,¡± he commanded, and Saori found no words to refuse. He followed Karasu beneath the canopy of cherry blossoms that surrounded the council house, the petals falling like whispers of forgotten dreams. They descended the stone-carved stairs that wound down to the path leading to what the elders called the End of the World. The cliff''s edge loomed before them, a sheer drop so precise it seemed more the work of a master swordsman¡¯s katana than of nature. Karasu stood at the precipice, staring into the vast expanse of the sea. Beyond the horizon, Saori knew, lay Frostheim¡ªthe land of eternal winter, where icy winds howled through barren landscapes and snow never ceased to fall. Karasu¡¯s gaze was fixed on that distant shore, as if seeking answers in the frosty mist. The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts. Saori joined him at the edge, the salt air whipping against his face, mingling with the faint scent of cherry blossoms.

    ¡°What did you discuss in today''s council?¡± Karasu asked, his tone sharp and probing. When Saori remained silent, Karasu pressed on, his frustration palpable. ¡°Did you make Emiko leave the council again?¡± Saori sighed, moving to the cliff''s edge and letting his feet dangle over the abyss. His black robes fluttered in the wind. ¡°How can you sit so uncaringly?¡± Karasu''s voice was tinged with irritation. When Saori still didn¡¯t respond, Karasu grabbed him by the neck, pushing him forward as if threatening to shove him over the edge. Saori remained unflinching, feeling the tremor in Karasu¡¯s arm before he finally let go.

    ¡°Our family and empire will never go beyond this world of ours,¡± Saori said at last, his voice heavy with resignation. Karasu gathered his long, spiky black hair and tossed it over his shoulder.

    ¡°Whose fault is that?¡± he replied coolly.

    Saori chuckled softly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Karasu. Forgive me, but I don¡¯t think anyone could do anything different in this situation.¡± Karasu shook his head and sat down beside him.

    ¡°A lot of people would¡¯ve done something other than sit and do nothing.¡± His eyes were filled with disdain as he looked Saori up and down. ¡°You¡¯re like chains from the past, here to keep us down, never to leave our traditions.¡± Saori blinked calmly at him.

    ¡°And how has that ever negatively affected us? In your desire and ambition for more, you will only become a slave to your own desires.¡± Karasu laughed, a deep, resonant sound, surprising for someone so young.

    ¡°Spare me your wisdom. That time has passed,¡± Karasu said scornfully. ¡°If it were ambition and my own desires, I would have left Zoros to become a king in the Shattered Realms of Turukhan.¡±

    ¡°So what is it then? For your grandchildren to live comfortably? If so, let us stay here. Do not pass down your battles,¡± Saori replied. ¡°You are young, and your view is limited. You question my reign, but by my first decade as emperor, you were not yet born.¡± Karasu snorted.

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard the stories all the same. You take pride in our history, in its preservation and accuracy, yet you ignore the truth when it suits you.¡± The Zoros library was a colossal behemoth, the greatest repository of knowledge the world had ever seen. Its vast halls contained enough books to occupy five generations without exhaustion. The histories it held were pure, meticulously recorded, yet therein lay the problem. Their people rarely ventured beyond their borders, so their accounts were often secondhand, shaped by the victors or the embittered. This was the flaw in their history, a mirror of their own isolation.

    ¡°I pride myself because I have seen. The foolish people outside our lands sing the same song until the bird has grown old and died.¡± Saori''s voice carried the weight of experience, his gaze steady. Karasu stared at him, eyes wide with fervor.

    ¡°And when will the next bird come to usher in a new era? Why can¡¯t we be that bird? We know the past, so we can shape the future.¡± His eyes glimmered with the spark of imagination, a vision of something beyond their borders. Saori knew this boy always got carried away with such thoughts, which was why he dreaded these conversations.

    ¡°Let me see how your katana practice has been going,¡± Saori said, rising to his feet. Karasu looked at him, momentarily annoyed, but then stood up, following Saori reluctantly.

    ¡°Why change the subject?¡± he asked, prying. Saori did not respond, and they walked in silence towards the training grounds where the children were gathered.

    ¡°Where are Sakura and Ichigo?¡± Saori asked, taking a ken from the wall of swords. It was real metal, cold and unyielding. If Karasu wanted to discuss matters beyond his understanding, he could do so with swords. Karasu selected a katana, his expression unfazed.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Those two are probably enjoying themselves while I worry about our future,¡± Karasu muttered. Saori ran his fingers along the blade''s edge, feeling a slight sting as it cut into his skin. It was sharp enough, though not as fine as his own ken. The children watched from a distance as he and Karasu took their stances.

    ¡°We believe in you, Karasu!¡± the children shouted, their cries a mild annoyance. Karasu remained focused on Saori, ignoring their cheers. Saori swung his ken in a wide arc, memories of his youth as a minor soldier flooding back. Life had been simpler then. With quick, fluid movements, Karasu advanced, his katana slicing through the air, one arm held behind his back. The clash of steel filled the training grounds, a stark contrast to the earlier discussions of ambition and legacy.

    Saori avoided each cut with a mere turn and a step back, his movements fluid and precise. Karasu was relentless, pestering him with a flurry of attempts to slice through his defense, but Saori''s steps never faltered. To him, fighting was an art, a dance between two opponents. When words failed, the language of combat spoke volumes. Saori made his first move¡ªa quick, upright slash that intercepted Karasu¡¯s katana mid-stab. An unorthodox maneuver, but Karasu was full of surprises. He let his katana whirl around Saori¡¯s, attempting to cut his stomach in a flashing whirlwind, but once again, he was too slow. Saori grasped his arm and turned with him, sending him sprawling. Karasu¡¯s katana clattered to the ground, and Saori kicked it towards him.

    ¡°Pick it up,¡± Saori commanded. ¡°A fallen emperor means a fallen empire. Right now, you are what the empire isn¡¯t.¡± His tone was cold, perhaps too harsh for a boy, but Karasu seemed to take it as motivation. He picked up the katana, his determination burning brighter than ever. But determination alone wouldn¡¯t be enough¡ªit never was. Karasu slashed at him, fiercer and quicker this time. Saori countered with a swift kick to his arm, disarming him once more. To his surprise, Karasu didn¡¯t stop. Instead, he lashed out with a kick of his own, connecting solidly with Saori¡¯s head. The unexpected strength behind the kick sent Saori reeling. He hadn''t anticipated such power hidden within Karasu¡¯s frame. Through his blurry vision, Saori saw Sakura and Ichigo watching, their faces a mix of surprise and disappointment. He couldn¡¯t let this continue. Picking himself up, ken still in hand, Saori decided it was time to stop holding back.

    Saori strafed around Karasu with swift, calculated movements, leaping over him in a fluid motion. Karasu turned, but it was too late. In those fleeting moments, Saori had outpaced him, positioning his sword at Karasu¡¯s neck, leaving the boy defenseless.

    ¡°You fought well,¡± Karasu admitted, his voice subdued as he stepped back, relinquishing the fight. The children erupted in joy, their earlier support for Karasu forgotten in their excitement. Karasu, however, turned away, frustration evident in his stride.

    ¡°You fought so well, Saori sensei!¡± cried Chiyo, her voice ringing with admiration. Hiroko snorted, his eyes following the departing Karasu, who didn¡¯t so much as glance at Saori after his defeat.

    ¡°Tough to think I thought he would win,¡± Hiroko muttered. Ichigo quickly placed a hand over Hiroko¡¯s mouth, silencing him.

    ¡°Ahh, you idiot!¡± snapped Ichigo, pulling back and rubbing his hand on his brown robe. Sakura giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

    ¡°Where were you two?¡± Saori asked, disentangling himself from the children. Kimono, frustrated, punched him lightly, but it hardly hurt. Ichigo blushed, adjusting his flat straw hat, while Sakura looked away, tying her hands behind her back.

    ¡°We were in the forest¡­ training,¡± Ichigo muttered, embarrassed. Saori noted their awkwardness.

    ¡°I see,¡± Saori observed, choosing to let it go for now. ¡°Didn¡¯t I tell you two to look after Karasu?¡± He spoke with slight irritation. Ichigo shrugged, almost carelessly. His brown robe dragged on the floor, too large for him, and his pale hair blew in the wind. His lean stature made him agile and well-suited for katana fighting.

    "Forgive us, but we can¡¯t look after him forever,¡± Ichigo said pointedly.

    Sakura sighed, her frustration apparent. ¡°I don¡¯t understand why he acts so cold towards us. We were like family for years, just the four of us, but now¡­¡± Sakura¡¯s voice trailed off, her disappointment evident. Saori understood her unspoken words.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll heal in time,¡± he assured them. Ichigo scratched the beginnings of his beard thoughtfully.

    ¡°Well, you''ve always been right, thankfully. So, there¡¯s no reason to believe otherwise now,¡± Ichigo remarked. They fell into a momentary silence, watching the children gather their practice gear, preparing to spar among themselves. A sudden weariness washed over Saori, and he felt the weight of his years bearing down on him like never before. It was an unwelcome realization, but one he couldn¡¯t ignore. A faint tingling sensation in his eye caught his attention¡ªa rare and welcome feeling. Saori blinked, dismissing the sensation.

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    ¡°Sakura, would you mind watching the children for a moment? I need to speak with Ichigo,¡± Saori requested. Sakura nodded, eager to distract herself with the children¡¯s play.

    ¡°What did you want to talk about, Saori?¡± Ichigo inquired as Saori led him to the same spot Karasu had taken him earlier¡ªthe edge of the world. ¡°I never understood why we built our home so close to here, you know? Seems like a disaster waiting to happen.¡±

    ¡°Gods know it already has happened,¡± Saori muttered, gesturing for Ichigo to join him. Saori wondered how many people had sat in this very spot before, contemplating important matters. It was his second visit today alone. If only...

    ¡°So, what did you want to talk about?¡± Ichigo repeated, settling beside Saori. Saori studied the boy for a moment. Despite being only fifteen, Ichigo seemed far older. When Saori had ascended to the throne, he had questioned whether it was right to burden such young shoulders, but the mark never lied.

    ¡°I will die soon,¡± Saori stated flatly, cutting straight to the point. Ichigo¡¯s eyes widened in shock.

    ¡°You¡¯re only in your fifties, why are you talking about death? You¡¯re still so¡­¡± Ichigo trailed off, but Saori shook his head, placing a hand on the boy¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Did you see something through the eye?¡± Ichigo asked, horror creeping into his voice. Saori couldn¡¯t help but laugh, finding the notion amusing.

    ¡°Ichigo, I will tell you something that few people know. Perhaps only three, if my assumptions are correct. Can you keep such a secret?¡± Saori asked. Ichigo hesitated for a moment, then nodded, removing his flat straw hat and placing it beside him. His hair cascaded freely, partially obscuring his face.

    ¡°I can keep a secret,¡± Ichigo assured him. Saori looked up at the darkening sky, the moon drawing nearer as dusk settled in. It was as if the heavens wanted to keep this secret as well.

    ¡°I could never use this mark,¡± Saori said solemnly. Ichigo snorted dismissively.

    ¡°Nice joke,¡± he muttered, as if trying to convince himself. But when Saori didn¡¯t smile, Ichigo''s own smile faltered.

    ¡°From the day I received it, I knew I lacked the will to wield such a powerful mark,¡± Saori continued, his tone serious. ¡°Yes, sometimes it offered guidance. Rarely, as it does now, urging me to share with you what I am about to reveal.¡± Saori scrutinized Ichigo''s expression, searching for a reaction he didn¡¯t quite anticipate. Yet, it never surfaced. ¡°So, for all these years, I have been a fraud to our country. I feared taking action, always adhering to tradition and the examples set by my predecessors. That was the extent of my guidance,¡± he confessed to Ichigo. The boy tightened his grip on the edge of the world, his eyes shut tight.

    ¡°You said you would die,¡± Ichigo muttered, his voice barely audible. ¡°Now, you tell me you could never use your mark.¡± He lifted his gaze to meet Saori''s, brushing his hair away from his face. ¡°Is it your wish for me to become emperor?¡± Saori smiled, closing his eyes. Ichigo was intelligent, but he couldn¡¯t possibly know what he did not.

    ¡°You''ve never heard of the shadow emperor?¡± Saori inquired, a hint of amusement in his voice. Ichigo shook his head, his expression perplexed. ¡°If I am the emperor who wields control over everything within our lands with this mark,¡± Saori explained, gesturing to the symbol on his hand, ¡°then the shadow emperor is the one who oversees the underground, protecting us from unseen threats.¡± Saori sighed wearily, his smile tinged with exhaustion. ¡°Yet, we do not have one. The mark is supposed to guide me to the worthy successor after the last one, but it never did. A risky oversight, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡± Ichigo rose to his feet, looking down at Saori with frustration etched into his features.

    ¡°Why did the mark of the Sacred Mirror never offer you any guidance?¡± he demanded, his voice tinged with anger. Saori shrugged, his demeanor resigned.

    ¡°I suppose I lacked the willpower for it,¡± Saori admitted. ¡°After all the wars our country endured, I was weakened. But who could blame me? Everyone else was weaker than me, so they chose me to bear the burden of unworthiness.¡± Ichigo¡¯s flat hat flew past his face and tumbled off the edge of the world, but he hardly reacted.

    ¡°It seems as though you¡¯re avoiding taking complete responsibility. Why not pass it on to someone else?¡± Ichigo pressed.

    ¡°The mark instructs you to do that, and I haven¡¯t received such a sign. But I¡¯m grateful it has finally revealed to me that you are the worthy one to be the shadow emperor,¡± Saori sighed, reclining back, a sense of liberation washing over him.

    ¡°So, how would I become the shadow emperor?¡± Ichigo inquired. Saori shrugged nonchalantly.

    ¡°You would receive the mark of the Raven, of course. We should actually go do that right now,¡± Saori suggested, starting to rise to his feet. But Ichigo stepped on his hand, preventing him from standing. Saori gazed up at Ichigo, surprised by this unfamiliar assertiveness.

    ¡°What will happen to Karasu?¡± Ichigo asked quietly. Saori pushed his leg away, rising to his feet and turning away without meeting Ichigo¡¯s gaze.

    ¡°For once in my tenure as Emperor, I will be doing the right thing, Ichigo. Don¡¯t try to make me feel worse about myself now,¡± Saori replied, his voice tinged with frustration. Ichigo hurried to catch up, his expression troubled but silent.

    ¡°I¡¯m just worried about him,¡± Ichigo murmured softly. Saori nodded in understanding.

    ¡°Of course, I understand. I care for him, as I do for all my people,¡± Saori replied with a chuckle. ¡°It¡¯s a pity I couldn¡¯t do more.¡± Ichigo remained silent, lost in thought. Soon, they reentered the grove of Cherry Blossom trees, arriving at the largest one. This ancient cherry blossom tree had stood for thousands of years, longer than even they had. Legend had it that its roots spread across all of Zoros, covering every inch of land.

    ¡°Why are we here?¡± Ichigo asked, his voice filled with curiosity. Saori smiled knowingly, walking up to the ancient cherry blossom tree and placing his hand upon its gnarled trunk. Slowly, as if responding to his touch, roots began to coil around his hand, gradually enveloping his entire body. Saori extended a hand to Ichigo, who hesitated for a moment before accepting it. In an instant, the roots encased them both, transporting them into one of Saori¡¯s most cherished sanctuaries¡ªthe Rooted Throne.

    ¡°This is the Rooted Throne,¡± Saori announced proudly, his grin widening as he gestured around the chamber. From floor to ceiling, the room was cloaked in a lattice of white roots, stretching impossibly high for such a modest tree. At the far end of the hall stood a throne crafted entirely from cherry blossom roots, its elegant form a testament to nature¡¯s beauty. Along the walls, towering bookshelves overflowed with tomes, containing a wealth of knowledge that surpassed the comprehension of any single individual. Ichigo stood in stunned silence, his eyes wide with awe and disbelief. Never could he have imagined that such a magnificent place existed right before their eyes, hidden within the depths of the cherry blossom tree. In this sanctuary, Saori found solace amid the weight of his responsibilities as Emperor, immersing himself in the boundless wisdom that surrounded him, a rare respite from the burdens of leadership.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe it,¡± Ichigo murmured to himself, his voice filled with wonder. Saori strode towards the throne, his demeanor focused and determined.

    ¡°You can marvel later. For now, let¡¯s get you this mark,¡± Saori declared, hoping that Ichigo remembered what was required of him.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you think this is too soon?¡± Ichigo questioned, his tone laced with concern. Saori simply shrugged, taking a seat upon the ornate throne. With a tap on the front of one of the armrests, a hidden compartment was revealed, containing a scroll.

    ¡°This is the mark of the Raven, Ichigo. You will be our next protector,¡± Saori explained, a smile playing upon his lips. Ichigo regarded the scroll with uncertainty.

    ¡°If it is what the empire needs of me,¡± he murmured. Saori¡¯s smile widened. The mark had chosen wisely in selecting Ichigo as the next Shadow Emperor. ¡°What will happen to me after this? Will I have to leave?¡± Ichigo inquired, his gaze fixed upon Saori.

    ¡°When you receive your mark, tradition dictates that your consciousness will be transported to a realm where you will gain understanding. It will only be a fleeting moment in this world, but in that moment, you will be transformed,¡± Saori explained, tapping the scroll gently against his own forehead. This sanctuary, hidden within the Rooted Throne, was his realm alone. No one else knew of its existence, except for Ichigo now.

    ¡°Is there a ritual or something? How does this work?¡± Ichigo pressed, his eyes scanning the contents of the scroll. Saori¡¯s expression brightened with enthusiasm.

    ¡°Of course! Now, I believe this is how it¡¯s done,¡± Saori exclaimed, unfurling the scroll so they could both study its contents. ¡°This is my first time seeing it all as well,¡± he admitted. Ichigo took a slow breath, the weight of the moment settling upon him. It was a monumental occasion, one that he had never anticipated. He had likely lived his life assuming that Karasu would ascend to the throne. As the realization sank in, a faint memory from long ago resurfaced in his mind.

    In Zoros, for as many centuries as he had read about, every emperor had carefully selected three children with the potential to succeed him. The identity of the shadow emperor would be determined by the Mark of the Sacred Mirror. For Saori, that pivotal decision had led him to choose Sakura, Ichigo, and Kasaru¡ªan exceedingly rare instance where the mark had granted him clear guidance. Then, there was the Emperor¡¯s Residence¡ªa place where the emperor and council members resided alongside their families. Saori had once harbored reservations about the leaders of their land being distanced from the people they governed. However, he recognized that it was not his place to challenge the established order, no matter how vehemently he might have wished to enact change.

    An exceptional opportunity had arisen for their nation to participate in the grand council known as the Three Swords¡ªan event of unparalleled prestige. The illustrious houses of Fjord, Altan, and Cragoria were to convene, a honor bestowed upon only a select few. Yet, Saori found himself frustrated by his council¡¯s unwavering pride and allegiance to tradition, which often hindered their ability to perceive beyond their own self-interests. Despite their boasts of being the oldest house in all realms, revered by the Gods themselves, Saori remained disillusioned. Nevertheless, Saori resolved to attend the event. It was, after all, primarily a ceremonial affair¡ªa two-week long tournament accompanied by festivities and celebrations. Minor houses such as Ignis, Akhan, Pierce, and Tayga were also invited to partake in the revelry, basking in the honor bestowed upon them. It proved to be a delightful occasion, with all attendees thoroughly enjoying themselves amidst the jubilant atmosphere.

    During the ceremony, one particular incident seized Saori''s attention. Karasu and his companion, Tarkan, appeared to be inseparable, often finding themselves embroiled in mischief. In Zoros, misbehavior among children was met with a peculiar punishment¡ªconfinement within a cage for a designated period. Yet, the antics of these two miscreants extended beyond harmless pranks. They dared to replace the swords of tournament participants with mere sticks¡ªan act deemed frivolous by most, but not by Thorne Ignis, the esteemed Gilded Knight of the Ignis family. In response, he promptly confined Karasu and Tarkan within the confines of one of those cages. News of their predicament quickly spread, eliciting a vehement reaction from Tarkan''s nanny, a woman by the name of Amaya. Meanwhile, Karasu''s own companions, unfazed by their friend''s plight, merely chuckled from within the cage.

    Ser Thorne emerged victorious in the tournament, further exacerbating the ire directed towards Karasu and Tarkan. As the tournament drew to a close, whispers of Tarkan and Karasu''s disappearance ignited a furor throughout the kingdom. Some speculated that they had been abducted, while others feared the worst¡ªthat they had met their demise. However, Saori''s interrogation of Ichigo and his companion, Dimer, swiftly unraveled the truth. The reckless duo had ventured into the nearby forest known as The White Stags Den¡ªa place teeming with rare and majestic creatures. Despite the inherent danger, they had set out to hunt one of the elusive white stags, risking life and limb in the process. Queen Yrvana of Frostheim, observing the chaos with amusement, found the entire spectacle rather amusing, adding yet another layer of intrigue to the unfolding drama.

    She scarcely stirred a muscle, merely observing the unfolding events with a detached air. In stark contrast, the young Queen of Cragoria¡ªmerely twelve years of age¡ªappeared visibly distressed, her concern palpable amidst the assembly of kings and lords. Moved by a sense of urgency, she offered a reward to anyone who could retrieve the two children from the depths of the forest first. With a sense of irony, it was Saori, Ichigo, and Sakura who stumbled upon them¡ªthough the circumstances were anything but ordinary. Before them, a prophecy unfurled, a sight that Saori had never before witnessed. Tarkan stood at a distance, his expression oscillating between fear and wonder, a sentiment shared by all who beheld the unfolding spectacle.

    Instead of a white stag, Karasu had felled a creature of unparalleled rarity¡ªa golden stag, the stuff of legends. These majestic beings were thought to exist only in tales of yore, yet there it lay, lifeless, its blood staining the forest floor. Karasu, in a display of inexplicable defiance, claimed the creature''s antlers as his own, adorning himself with them as though assuming the mantle of the fallen beast. In that moment, his demeanor exuded a regal pride, his spiky long hair billowing in the wind, a stark contrast against the solemnity of the scene. The golden stag, symbolizing the very essence of the Zoros lineage, lay slain at the hands of one who might ascend to the throne¡ªa poignant twist of fate.

    "Could he be the next emperor?" Ichigo''s incredulous query hung in the air, his astonishment mirrored by Sakura''s hesitant gaze. Though she longed to refute the notion, the undeniable symbolism of the moment rendered her speechless. It was a naive observation, borne of a child''s limited perspective, yet Karasu''s demeanor had hinted at a deeper significance¡ªa truth that Saori himself had never dared to entertain. He had never envisioned himself as such a figure.

    In the aftermath, both Tarkan and Karasu faced severe punishment, their proximity to each other forbidden. However, the Shah of the Kingdom of Altun, Hajr, displayed an unexpected act of kindness by allowing them to retain the stag''s antlers, recognizing their significance. Now, those very antlers adorned the throne, a tangible reminder of their extraordinary encounter. Saori pondered the origins of the antlers, harboring a hope that the mark might one day unveil their mystery. Within the confines of the scroll lay a peculiar symbol¡ªa crow''s foot, accompanied by a single feather, adorned its center. Surrounding it, unfamiliar words danced in an intricate pattern, their meaning eluding Saori. Ichigo''s breath quickened, a palpable tension hanging in the air, as if on the brink of fainting¡ªa rare occurrence for the composed young man, indicative of the gravity of the moment. The ornate script, weaving a mesmerizing tapestry around the symbol, whispered ancient truths and sacred vows. Saori, struggling to recall the precise ceremonial words, improvised, his voice carrying the weight of solemnity and reverence.

    "Ichigo... You have been chosen by the mark of the Sacred Mirror to assume the mantle of the Shadow Emperor. Your duty is to protect, to cherish, to serve¡ªall beneath the auspices of divine providence. Rise now, for you are elevated above all, yet humbled by your sacred charge." As Saori uttered the invocation, Ichigo rose, his demeanor transformed by newfound purpose and understanding. With unwavering resolve, he placed his hand upon the mark, bracing himself as arcane energies coursed through him, etching the symbol into his very being

    "I am," Ichigo murmured, barely audible, yet the words reverberated through the air, tinged with an ineffable weight. A chill danced down his spine as the mark found its resting place above his left eye, its arcane sigil etching itself into his very being. With each passing moment, Ichigo''s eye closed, shrouded by the shadowy emblem, the words seemingly seeping into his consciousness. Saori watched with quiet satisfaction as the transformation unfolded before him. Ichigo''s cry pierced the air, his form crumbling under the weight of the profound change taking hold.

    Disarrayed robes draped his figure, a testament to the tumult within. Yet, as swiftly as the storm had arrived, a calm settled over Ichigo, his labored breaths gradually steadying with each passing moment. In that fleeting instant, as their eyes locked in silent communion, Saori beheld a metamorphosis he had never witnessed within himself. Ichigo stood before him, an enigma cloaked in an understanding beyond his own, his essence transformed by the profound weight of his destiny. It was a sight that left Saori grappling with a sense of awe and uncertainty, for the boy he once knew seemed to fade into the shadows, replaced by a figure he never knew.

 Chapter 12|Galen Pierce|Cragoria, Aerakoséˆ¥æªš Haven|

    A heavy heart lay beneath Lord Galen''s breastplate. The city stirred memories best left buried, a stark reminder of a turning point in the history of men. He would have preferred a more joyous reason for his return. The Silent Steels, they were called, these knights sworn only to the queen''s word. None else held their loyalty, none filled their purses. They served in the shadows, purging the city''s underbelly of scum and villainy. In this most perilous hour, their skills were precisely what was needed. Queen Zorvaia had commanded them to gather all who might threaten her brother, Korin. Now those accused stood huddled beneath the weeping sky, shivering and wretched.

    Galen studied the prisoners. Their eyes held fear, not the cold calculation of a killer. These people could not have been responsible for such a heinous act, especially against someone as respected as Prince Korin.

    "Lord Galen," one of the guards said, a man named Dorneth with fiery red hair, "we have a suspect. Found her hiding in a whore house. Likely a cutpurse or worse." Galen recognized both guards. Dorneth and his companion, Zarvik, who bore a missing eye as a mark of past battles. They had served in the King''s Guard under the previous ruler, King Voras, but left in disgrace. Now they claimed to serve the new Queen with honor.

    Galen eyed the woman carefully. She averted her gaze, her clothes ragged and travel-worn. This was no assassin''s garb. "Why do you suspect her?" he asked.

    "Fled when approached," one of the guards replied. "Most likely got tired of pleasin men." The woman spat at the guard''s feet. He reacted with a surge of fury, but Galen''s sharp voice cut him off.

    "Enough," he barked. "We lack evidence to hold her. Besides, the Prince was struck down by a blade, not by..."

    ¡°Not by poison.¡±A voice, oily and smooth, interrupted Galen from behind. It belonged to Mavron, the Keeper of the Coin. His beard and hair were slicked back, unnaturally shiny, like a groomed animal. Galen found the man''s appearance off-putting. He gave a curt nod to the guards, dismissing them.The guards hesitated, then bowed their heads in acceptance. The Queen''s command was clear. They were under his. As they moved to take the woman away, she shrugged them off with a defiant look at Galen before turning and walking away again. Galen dismissed them with a curt nod. Mavron sidled up to Galen, his face unreadable. He watched the guards grumble as they left, then shifted his gaze to the woman disappearing into the throngs of people. "Doubt lingers in the air," Mavron finally said. Galen''s hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword Bringer.

    Galen sighed, the sound heavy in the damp air. "Indeed," he said, his voice low. "Doubt lingers like a shroud." He watched the woman disappear into the crowd, a flicker of unease sparking in his gut. Those eyes of his were like a snake. Constantly twisting and turning. Watching for a weakness waiting for a failure. Those judging eyes of his.

    Mavron''s lips curved into a thin smile, one that didn''t quite reach his eyes. "The human heart, Lord Galen," he said, his voice a sibilant whisper, "is a labyrinth of secrets. Even the most honest face can hide a viper''s nest of intentions." Galen narrowed his eyes. He didn''t like riddles or word games. He preferred the straightforward approach, the clash of steel a more honest truth than veiled pronouncements.

    "Then perhaps we should delve deeper into this labyrinth," he countered. "See if we can unearth the truth that hides within." Mavron chuckled, a dry rasping sound.

    "Truth, Lord Galen, is a fickle mistress. She can be a balm to the wounded soul, or a barb that pierces the heart. Are you certain you wish to court her favors in this matter?" Galen met Mavron''s gaze head-on.

    "Justice demands it," he said, his voice firm. "The Queen may have issued her command, but blind obedience is a recipe for disaster. We need proof, not accusations fueled by fear." A flicker of something akin to respect flickered in Mavron''s eyes.

    "A commendable stance, Lord Galen. Though perhaps a touch naive." He steepled his fingers, his long, manicured nails glinting in the firelight.  "The city is a festering wound, Lord Galen. Fear is a powerful tool, and sometimes necessary to maintain order. But used too harshly, it can curdle into resentment, a breeding ground for dissent."

    ¡°Fear may control the masses,¡± Galen began, his voice steady but low, ¡°but it breeds loyalty to whoever promises to remove it. Today, it¡¯s the Queen. Tomorrow, it could be anyone.¡± Mavron¡¯s smile grew, revealing perfectly straight teeth that seemed out of place in his otherwise oily appearance.

    ¡°Ah, but fear also ensures loyalty. The Silent Steels are proof of that. Their fear of falling from grace keeps them obedient, their loyalty to the Queen unwavering.¡± Galen frowned.

    ¡°Loyalty born of fear is fragile. It can shatter the moment a stronger force emerges.¡± Mavron¡¯s eyes glinted with something akin to amusement.

    ¡°And what stronger force do you propose, Lord Galen? Justice? Honor? These are noble ideals, but in this city, they are but whispers against the roar of survival.¡± Galen was growing tired of this crossing of words with Mavron. He was a tricky man and Galen feared for his tongue to trip over itself revealing something to the man that he must not know.

    ¡°The realm asks us to serve it.¡± Galen stated as his final words. ¡°And the realm shall be served.¡± Mavron dipped his head towards Galen seemingly with the utmost respect for the Hand of the Kingdom.

    ¡°Nothing less to expect from our Lord Hand, Galen Pierce.¡± Galen didn¡¯t wait another moment around the man only nodding his head towards him. Without another word Galen left the man behind his cloak and approached his own horse that led the men.

    "Lord Hand, all potential suspects have been loaded into the horse wagon. Are we to leave now?" one of the knights asked. Galen gave a curt nod, barely acknowledging him. He spurred his horse forward, his mind elsewhere. Mavron¡¯s words had disturbed him more than he cared to admit. For now, Mavron would have to wait. First, they had to scale this mountain and survey the aftermath. Galen swore to himself that he would deal with Mavron and any others who threatened the order.

    Yet, the thought of going to such lengths to safeguard the crown made him uneasy. Galen prided himself on his sense of justice. He had always claimed he would not prosecute without solid proof. But there was no evidence against Mavron, nothing concrete to say he had done wrong or ever would. Still, it seemed almost inevitable. Men like Mavron, with their cunning and ambition, rarely walked a straight path. Galen felt the weight of past mistakes, a history of overlooking the dangerous until it was too late. Mavron was perilous, that much was certain, but it was his potential for power that made him truly dangerous. And Galen knew that others might see him in the same light. Everything depended on perspective. It seemed unjust to judge Mavron so harshly, but Galen saw no other way.

    Galen neared the Giant¡¯s Ascent gate, the entryway that led them up Sky Pierce Mountain to the castle where judgment awaited the accused. He knew in his heart that these people were innocent, and soon it would be proven. Yet the question of who the true killer was loomed large. A man capable of infiltrating the prince¡¯s quarters, committing murder, and vanishing without a trace haunted his thoughts. It was as though he were failing in his duty to serve the kingdom, and many eyes watched him with hope, waiting for answers he could not provide.

    When he had arrived with the knights to round up suspects, the city had seemed to vanish. Shops were shuttered, and only beggars and stragglers with no home remained. Reluctantly, Galen had ordered his men to enter every house, questioning anyone whose alibi faltered or whose story contradicted itself. He remembered the tearful eyes of the little girl¡¯s father as he was taken away, her mother holding her back with eyes darkened by fear. A horse rode up beside Galen, ridden by a man of wealth and stature, someone vaguely familiar.

    Then he recognized the banner trailing behind the man, bearing the sigil of House Laydon, a roaring panda bear, one of the noble houses of Cragoria. What their envoy was doing here and how they had been allowed past the gates was a mystery. Galen¡¯s thoughts churned as he stared at the imposing figure. The presence of House Laydon complicated matters further.

    "Greetings, Lord Hand. I have arrived at the order of my Lord Thalric Laydon." Galen inclined his head in acknowledgment.

    "Who let you beyond these gates, Ser..." Galen began, only to realize the man hadn¡¯t offered his name.

    "Apologies, Lord Galen. My name is Varedis," the man supplied. Galen mulled over the name, sensing a familiarity he couldn''t quite place. "I carry my lord''s banner, granting me passage through the gates, my Lord. I assumed you would know that," Varedis remarked with a hint of reproach. Galen''s brow furrowed.

    "I have been preoccupied. My apologies for the oversight. You are indeed welcome to our kingdom," he replied, his gaze scrutinizing the newcomer.

    "Pray tell, what business brings you here?"

    "I have heard troubling news, my Lord Hand. Our beloved Prince Korvin has been slain in his quarters. Naturally, I couldn''t..." Varedis''s words trailed off into a rant, but Galen''s horror gripped him. How could this man know of the prince''s demise? No public announcement had been made, and Lord Thalric''s family seat, Laydon Manor, lay at Warden¡¯s Pass, a journey deemed impossible.

    "Why is Lord Thalric not present himself?" Galen interjected, halting the man''s rambling. Varedis appeared momentarily taken aback by the mention of his lord but quickly regained his composure, responding in a tone that bordered on cheerfulness.

    "Lord Thalric is preoccupied with matters at his manor," Varedis remarked, glancing around cautiously before continuing. "Between you and me, he is in search of a suitable match for his daughter, although she herself is not keen on marriage," he confided, a hint of sadness tingeing his tone. "Such a shame. She is a lovely young lady," he lamented, shaking his head as though lamenting a great tragedy.

    I see," Galen replied, readjusting his grip on the reins as the path ahead grew rougher. He grunted as his horse jolted suddenly, nearly biting his tongue. A proper road would need to be constructed here soon. His attention flickered to the wagon of chests trailing behind them. "And what might those be, Sir Varedis?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on the treacherous terrain ahead.

    "Oh, nothing of consequence, my Lord. Merely a token of Lord Thalric''s condolences for the grieving queen," Varedis answered with a chuckle. "Assuming she is grieving, of course?" he added, attempting a jest. When Galen''s expression remained stoic, Varedis shrugged. "Worth a try," he muttered. Galen regarded the man with a sense of unease. His odd demeanor, combined with their improbable journey, set Galen on edge. In times as precarious as these, caution was warranted without fault. He signaled for one of his soldiers to join him at the front.

    "What is it you need, my Lord Hand?" the knight inquired. Galen leaned in subtly, avoiding the attention of Varedis.

    "Ride ahead and instruct Avirik to dispatch a message to Lord Thalric of Laydon. Inquire if he has dispatched his men for any particular reason. Understood?" Galen directed, his voice low but firm. The knight nodded, saluting Galen before riding ahead.

    "Good news, I hope?" Varedis interjected, his smile unyielding, seemingly oblivious to the tension. Galen offered a nod.

    "We can only hope," he replied cryptically. The remainder of their journey passed mostly in silence, punctuated only by Varedis''s feeble attempts at humor and conversation, which Galen largely brushed aside. It wasn''t until the man fell silent that Galen felt a semblance of relief. As they approached the castle gates, Galen observed the heightened security measures put in place by the queen. The number of guards had doubled, with sentries stationed at every conceivable corner, possibly augmented by clandestine knights unknown to him.

    "Welcome, Lord Hand," called the lead knight as the gates began to swing open. However, the caravan beside them was halted, denied entry.

    "State your business here," demanded the knight, his tone gruff and authoritative. Galen halted his horse, turning to observe the unfolding exchange.

    "I have been dispatched by Lord Thalric of Laydon to convey his condolences to the Queen," Varedis replied, bowing his head with a feigned air of solemnity. "A burden weighing heavily upon all our hearts," he added, his expression one of contrived grief. The knight remained unimpressed, his countenance stoic.

    "Any documentation to substantiate your claim?" the knight inquired, holding out his hand expectantly. Varedis''s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

    "Yes, indeed. Right here, Ser," Varedis responded, reaching into his garments and producing a parchment sealed with melted wax. However, the heraldry remained obscured from Galen''s view. The knight scrutinized the document for a moment before breaking the seal and pursuing its contents. His gaze flicked between Varedis and the parchment several times before he finally relented.

    "You may proceed," he declared, signaling for his soldiers to allow passage. Galen hesitated, considering requesting to inspect the document himself, but Varedis swiftly retrieved it and concealed it within his robes.

    "What is your name?" Galen called out to the knight who had inspected Varedis''s credentials. The guard appeared surprised by the acknowledgment but responded calmly.

    "Bryndar, my Lord," he replied. Galen nodded, committing the name to memory, before directing his men toward the stables. He beckoned two soldiers, issuing them with instructions.

    "Settle the horses and ensure the prisoners are secured in their cells," Galen commanded, his gaze drifting upward to the sky as he contemplated the dwindling daylight. Dusk would soon descend upon them, and time was of the essence. "Summon them to the Queen¡¯s throne room after nightfall. Do not delay," he added firmly. The two knights nodded in acknowledgment, swiftly relaying Galen''s orders to their comrades. Meanwhile, Varedis approached Galen, his countenance tinged with disappointment.

    "It appears our paths diverge here, my Lord. I must attend to my belongings," he lamented, extending his hand for a handshake in an unorthodox gesture. "I trust we shall reconvene in the Throne Room. It has been a pleasure accompanying you," Varedis remarked with a forced geniality. Galen, weary of Varedis''s persistent presence, reciprocated the handshake, offering polite wishes before dismounting his horse. Two servants promptly attended to his steed as Galen nodded at the guards stationed at the entrance, signaling his intention to enter the grand hall of the castle. The grandeur of the hall enveloped him as he stepped inside, his eyes drawn to the opulent chandeliers suspended from the lofty ceiling and the ancient paintings adorning the walls. Sculptures of exquisite craftsmanship adorned the periphery, but it was the central statue that commanded attention¡ªa majestic likeness of Queen Cragoria, her regal presence casting a formidable aura that seemed to surpass even the most esteemed visitors. Only the presence of King Aerakos himself could rival the magnificence of such a statue.

    Galen contemplated his remaining tasks for the day, but none surfaced in his thoughts. Perhaps a leisurely stroll through the castle''s backyard would provide a welcome respite. Passing by the imposing statue and ascending a grand staircase, he approached the massive doors leading outside, noting the absence of guards¡ªa glaring oversight that would require immediate rectification.

    Pushing open the heavy doors unaided, Galen stepped into the cool evening air, only to be confronted by a scene of horror. A fierce blaze raged through the once tranquil backyard, consuming everything in its path. For a fleeting moment, Galen stood transfixed, watching as the flames danced before him. It was as if he were drawn to the inferno, its allure tantalizing and irresistible¡ªa stark contrast to the ordinary, unwelcoming fires he knew. The warmth enveloped him, and for a brief moment, he felt the temptation to surrender to its embrace.

    "LORD GALEN!" The shout echoed through the courtyard, drawing Galen''s gaze upward to find Ser Theron, his expression etched with shock and horror, leaning over the railing.

    "Who is responsible for this inferno?" Galen bellowed back, his voice strained with urgency.

    "I know not, my Lord, but fear not¡ªthe Queen is safe. The fire is contained to the garden, and the maesters believe it will not spread further due to the surrounding stone," Ser Theron reassured him, his words offering a glimmer of solace amidst the chaos. Galen staggered back, a sudden headache gripping him. He groaned, rubbing his temples as visions flashed before his eyes¡ªvisions he had only witnessed in his darkest moments. Why now?

    "Daddy!" A cry pierced through the crackling flames, jolting Galen from his reverie. It couldn''t be... But there she was, his little girl, untouched by the fire''s wrath. "Come here, please," another voice pleaded from within the inferno. Galen''s heart pounded in his chest as he approached, ignoring warnings to stay back. The flames danced before him, but he saw only his beloved daughter and another figure beckoning him closer.

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    "I''m coming, just hold on," he called out, his voice choked with emotion. The little girl sobbed, her outstretched arm a desperate plea for salvation.

    "Hurry, daddy. It burns," she whimpered. Galen took a faltering step forward, each movement an agonizing effort. His muscles screamed in protest, his strength waning with every passing moment. Another step, and then another, until finally, his legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees, overcome by weakness and despair. Then he realized next to her was an older girl. Another one whose face made his heart scream.

    "Galen, I can''t breathe!" Her shriek pierced through the roar of the flames, echoing painfully in his ears. Despite his desperate desire to save them, to reach out and offer solace, he found himself sinking deeper into the unforgiving ground. It was a welcome embrace, too enticing to resist. With aching limbs, he extended a trembling hand towards the two figures, but it was futile. The elder girl staggered forward, her movements unsteady. Had she managed to escape the inferno?

    His heart clenched with hope, only to shatter as she collapsed before him, her body limp and charred beyond recognition. Galen''s groan of despair mingled with the crackle of flames, and he shut his eyes tightly, seeking refuge from the nightmarish reality unfolding around him. This was not the tale of an honorable knight, nor the song of a man who had devoted his life to the realm. It was a symphony of tragedy, an elegy for lost innocence and shattered dreams. With a heavy heart, he closed off his senses, yearning to drown out the screams and the raging inferno that threatened to consume him. Alone with his thoughts, Galen found himself in the vast expanse of his own mind, each word echoing like a haunting refrain in the empty chamber of his soul. Why, he pondered, had he never felt this profound solitude before?

    "Lord Galen, wake up," a voice pierced through the haze of slumber, pulling Galen from the depths of his dreams. He blinked groggily, taking in the familiar surroundings of his chambers, the soft fabric of his sheets beneath him. He rose unsteadily, his gaze settling on the maid before him.

    "Why... why am I here?" he mumbled, his voice heavy with confusion. The maid regarded him with a bemused expression, her smile too saccharine, too reminiscent of a haunting vision from his dreams.

    "You''re in your chambers, Lord Galen. Where else would you be?" she replied sweetly, her words like a discordant melody in his ears. A shiver ran down his spine as he recalled the spectral image of the girl from his nightmares, her likeness eerily similar to this maid before him.

    "Why have you awakened me?" Galen inquired, rising to his feet with unsteady legs that threatened to betray him at any moment. He couldn''t trust his own body to support him now.

    "Queen Zorvaia has summoned you to her Throne Room. The trial for the Prince''s murderer is set to begin," the maid explained. As her words penetrated his foggy mind, the dreamlike remnants of his slumber faded away like sand slipping through his fingers. Had everything else been a mere illusion? His encounter with Mavron, his journey with Varedis... Were they all figments of his imagination? Galen nodded, the weight of responsibility settling upon his shoulders once more.

    "You may leave. I will join her shortly," he dismissed the maid, who bowed and retreated. But before she could depart, a shadow of hesitation crossed her features, and she hesitated. "What troubles you, girl?" Galen probed, his grip tightening on her shoulders as he searched her eyes for answers. She flinched, pressing herself against the door with discomfort.

    "I may be mistaken, my Lord, but when I entered, I thought I saw a man standing beside your bed," she confessed timidly. In two strides he was by her side gripping her tightly.

    ¡°What wsa the demeanor of this man?¡± He demanded urgently.

    "I-I do not know, my Lord," the maid stammered, her voice trembling with uncertainty. "The man was hooded and cloaked entirely in black. I could not discern his features." Galen released his grip on her shoulders, allowing her to step away. He turned away, his gaze falling upon the bed where he had rested moments ago. Fear coiled in the pit of his stomach at the maid''s revelation. How had an unknown assailant infiltrated his chamber? In that vulnerable moment, he had been utterly defenseless. The realization struck him with chilling clarity. If the assassin had breached his chambers, then no one within the castle was safe. He recalled the recent assassination of the prince, who was guarded at all times. The intruder must have circumvented the guards, perhaps through the large window in the highest tower¡ªa feat that required stealth and skill beyond imagination. Galen''s thoughts returned to the maid, who still stood before him, clutching herself with a mixture of fear and discomfort.

    "I apologize," he murmured, his voice heavy with remorse. "It was dishonorable of me to handle you roughly. Please forgive me." The maid nodded, her expression softening.

    "It''s alright, my Lord. And I swear, I shall not speak a word of what transpired in this room," she assured him, bowing her head once more.

    "Thank you," Galen replied gratefully as she departed, leaving him alone with his troubled thoughts. The remnants of the dream had faded, replaced by a sobering reality that demanded his utmost vigilance. Quickly, he dressed in his most formal attire, his hand lingering on the hilt of his sword resting on the bed. Surprised to find himself sleeping with it, he hesitated before securing it around his waist. He must not underestimate any threat now.

    In a morbid twist of fate, Galen found a grim solace in the absence of knights stationed outside his door, ensuring that no witnesses bore witness to the unsettling encounter that had transpired within the confines of his chamber. He acknowledged the two servants nearby with a curt nod, their obsequious bows underscoring the gravity of the situation. With a heavy heart and a mind besieged by foreboding thoughts, he began his ascent towards the Throne Room, his path fraught with treacherous stairs that seemed to taunt him with their steep incline. The Throne Room, nestled at the pinnacle of the castle, awaited him like a specter looming in the darkness.

    Galen felt a surge of apprehension gnawing at his resolve, the prospect of ascending those daunting stairs threatening to unravel his composure. With each labored step, he fought to quell the rising tide of unease that threatened to overwhelm him. As he ascended, he spared a moment to glance through one of the stained glass windows, the fractured moonlight casting ethereal patterns upon the stone floor below.

    A sense of disquiet settled over him as he realized that dusk had long since given way to the enveloping darkness of night. Why had the Queen elected to shift the timing of the trial, he wondered, the sudden alteration adding an additional layer of uncertainty to an already fraught situation. Finally, he reached the threshold of the Throne Room, where a tableau of chaos greeted him. Guards lay strewn across the expansive hall, their prone forms a stark testament to the heightened tensions that pervaded the castle.

    "Lord Hand, Lord Galen Pierce," the call resonated from one of the knights stationed at the door, each bowing deeply in deference as Galen approached. With measured steps, he passed through the gauntlet of knights, their solemn reverence a testament to the gravity of the occasion. As the doors of the Throne Room swung open in unison, revealing the assembled company within, Galen''s gaze swept across the scene before him, a mixture of surprise and apprehension flickering in his eyes. Seated upon the throne, Queen Zorvaia cut a formidable figure, her countenance etched with an air of grim determination. Before her stood the suspects, their faces a tapestry of anxiety and suspicion, while beside them, Varedis presided over a chest, flanked by his vigilant guards. Galen''s brow furrowed in consternation at the unexpected presence of the enigmatic envoy, his instincts tingling with wary unease.

    "My Lord Hand! Did I not predict our reunion in the Throne Room? Fate works in mysterious ways," Varedis exclaimed with joviality, his arms outstretched in a disarming gesture of welcome. A pointed cough from Ser Therone swiftly silenced the interloper, who offered a hasty bow of contrition to the Queen, his bravado tempered by deference. Zorvaia''s gaze pierced through the superficial pleasantries, fixing upon Galen with a steely resolve.

    "Lord Galen, please, take your seat. You belong here as much as anyone," she urged, her voice commanding obedience as she motioned towards the vacant chair reserved for the Hand of the Queen. Along the periphery of the room, potential witnesses and testimonies awaited, their watchful eyes bearing witness to the unfolding drama. As Galen navigated his way towards his designated seat, his senses were keenly attuned to every nuance of the proceedings, every movement fraught with significance. Juramor, the Keeper of Law, stood poised to initiate the trial, his solemn declaration ringing out with the weight of authority. Galen leaned in towards the Queen.

    "My Queen, why have we delayed the trial?" Galen''s voice was a gentle murmur, his concern etched upon his brow as he leaned in towards her. Zorvaia''s smile, though strained, held a trace of warmth as she met his gaze.

    "I sensed your weariness, Galen," she confided in a voice that faltered with unspoken grief. "You''ve been unwavering in your devotion since my brother..." Her voice trailed off into a painful silence, the memories of loss casting a shadow over her once bright countenance. Despite her valiant efforts to maintain a fa?ade of composure, the strain of her sorrow was palpable. Resuming his attention to the trial, Galen listened as Juramor, the Keeper of Law, announced the presence of the seven suspects, each casting a wary glance towards the imposing figure of the Queen upon the throne. However, before the proceedings could progress further, Varedis interjected, his hand raised in a gesture of deference.

    "May I have the honor of presenting Lord Tholric''s regards to the Queen?" Varedis''s request hung in the air, a thinly veiled attempt to divert attention from the imminent trial. Randor, his patience wearing thin, moved forward with a menacing intent, but Ser Therone''s swift intervention forestalled any potential confrontation. A silent exchange ensued between Therone and the Queen, culminating in a subtle nod of acquiescence. "I am forever humbled by your boundless mercy, my Queen," Varedis murmured, his words dripping with saccharine adulation as he bowed before her.

    Galen resisted the urge to scoff at the transparent display of flattery, his gaze shifting to the Queen, who regarded the scene with a mixture of weariness and resignation. Resting her chin upon her hands, Zorvaia regarded the offerings that Varedis presented with a detached air, her expression betraying little emotion. The envoy''s attempt to convey the sorrow of his lord and the realm rang hollow, his words tinged with a veneer of manufactured grief. As the room fell into a solemn silence, broken only by the echo of Varedis''s somber words, a murmured remark cut through the air like a dagger. "So were his enemies," the voice spoke from the crowd, shattering the fragile peace that had settled over the Throne Room. Instantly, the Queen rose from her seat, her gaze darting across the room with a sharp intensity, as if seeking out the source of the discordant whisper. The Queen''s demand pierced the clamor that had engulfed the Throne Room, her voice resounding with a regal authority that brought all to attention. As tension crackled in the air, each occupant rose to their feet, a chorus of shouts and whispers echoing off the ornate walls.

    "Silence!" Juramor''s command cut through the tumult like a blade, his demeanor commanding respect as he surveyed the room with icy resolve. With measured steps, he approached one of the seven suspects, his gaze locked in a steely confrontation with the young man who met his stare with unwavering composure. "Was it you who uttered those words?" Juramor''s inquiry hung in the air, each word laden with the weight of scrutiny. The suspect, Robert, stood firm, his hands clasped behind his back as he returned the Keeper of Law''s gaze with unflinching resolve.

    "It was not I who uttered those words, my Lord," Robert responded evenly, his voice devoid of hesitation. As Queen Zorvaia attempted to interject, Ser Therone intervened, a stalwart presence at her side, urging caution.

    "Let us not concern ourselves with the likes of this man, Your Grace," Therone advised, his tone a stark contrast to the fervor that had swept through the room. "I witnessed the utterance myself." The assertion sent ripples of agreement coursing through the gathered assembly, a rare moment of unanimity in a sea of discord. Galen, however, remained steadfast in his conviction, his voice a calming counterpoint to the rising tide of accusation.

    "There is scant evidence to support such a claim, Your Grace," Galen countered, his tone measured yet resolute. Therone''s incredulous gaze bore into him, but Zorvaia, ever the voice of reason, acknowledged his perspective with a subtle nod of affirmation.

    "He could very well be a scapegoat," she mused, her gaze fixed upon the suspect with a penetrating intensity. Despite Therone''s silent protestations, she descended from her throne, her regal bearing undiminished as she approached the accused. As Zorvaia drew near, the other suspect, a man torn from his family, recoiled slightly, his eyes betraying a flicker of fear. Galen, seizing upon a rare opportunity to intervene, stepped forward, his actions guided by a sense of duty and compassion that transcended the boundaries of his station.

    "My Queen, may we dismiss the other suspects if we have decided that this man may be our key to this murder?" Galen inquired. The man''s surprise was evident as he glanced at Galen, who blinked back at him, silently assuring him. She nodded, her attention seeming fleeting.

    "Aye, of course. They may sit with the witnesses, but I want Ser Vorthane to keep a keen eye on them," she decreed, eliciting gasps of relief from the men as they were escorted back to their places.

    "What game are you playing?" Juramor interjected, approaching Galen with a furrowed brow. Galen fixed him with a narrowed gaze. "Moments ago, you argued against accusing this man solely on chance, yet now you discard the rest? Explain this folly," he demanded, his anger palpable. Rising to his feet, Galen loomed over Juramor, maintaining unbroken eye contact as he slowly descended, then wordlessly strode past him to stand beside the Queen. The man, Robert, greeted Galen with a disconcerting smile.

    "Never did I imagine I''d stand so near to the two most powerful figures in the realm," he remarked, his smile unsettling, revealing his yellow, crooked teeth.

    "What is your aim?" Juramor pressed, hastening to join the trio. Robert''s gaze swept over him and the surrounding crowd.

    "I cannot be proven guilty," he declared boldly. "Nor can anyone else. I maintain the belief that the prince took his own life!" His proclamation reverberated through the room, eliciting shocked murmurs. The Queen responded by delivering a dignified slap across his face, to which he merely shook his head in disappointment.

    "Your refusal to accept truth may be your undoing, my Queen," he warned solemnly. Queen Zorvaia sneered at him and moved past, surveying the room. Galen''s heart sank as he grasped the man''s intentions. Before the Queen could speak, he stepped up beside her, whispering into her ear.

    "Your Grace, I fear he may be attempting to incite unrest at this very moment. I advise we do not entertain his provocations. Whether he is a scapegoat or the true perpetrator, justice must be served," he cautioned. She regarded him with frustration, yet composed herself and nodded.

    "Once again, you speak wisdom," she replied softly. With all the dignity she could muster, she returned to her throne, with Galen at her side. Maintaining her regal composure, she addressed the man without breaking eye contact. "An accord has been reached. If Juramor, my Hand, and I concur, I shall deem this case closed. The sooner this matter concludes, the sooner I believe my brother may find peace in his resting place," she declared, closing her eyes briefly before reopening them. "I assert that this man, Robert, is culpable for the murder of Prince Korin." She glanced at Galen, who affirmed her decision with a nod.

    "I stand in agreement and advocate for his execution," Galen declared. Despite his outward support, inwardly, Galen harbored doubts. The man''s demeanor, every subtle movement, did not align with that of a condemned man. He lacked the bearing of one facing death or of a murderer. At most, he appeared to be a pawn or a hapless bystander caught in a web not of his own making.

    "I, too, am in favor of this," Juramor asserted hotly. Galen raised his brows slightly, surprised by Juramor''s unexpected alignment, yet not entirely. Despite his reservations about the man, Galen believed Juramor to be one of the few trustworthy souls within the castle. Unlike many others consumed by ambition or greed, Juramor''s loyalty lay solely with his duty, a fact that some found incredulous, as if he had stumbled unwittingly into the council chambers one day and remained ever since.

    Rumors swirled about Juramor''s lineage, whispered speculations of his bastard origins, though none dared broach the subject openly. He possessed a keen mind and an unyielding commitment to justice, never swaying from what he deemed right. To Galen, he embodied true honor, unlike the ostentatious Grand Hand. Galen exhaled with relief as the trial concluded swiftly and decisively. Glancing around the room, he noted the general air of satisfaction among the attendees.

    "Why were we not given the opportunity to speak?" a voice piped up from the sidelines. Queen Zorvaia raised her gaze to locate the source¡ªa young girl rising from her seat. Beside her, presumably her mother, attempted to pull her back down, but she resisted, clutching at her dress defiantly.

    "We have deemed the man guilty. His words are tantamount to a confession," Zorvaia declared smoothly. The young girl, scarcely two years younger than the Queen, appeared bewildered.

    "Then why summon me here if the decision was already made? For I can attest that on the day of our Prince''s demise, I witnessed this man purchasing bread from the bakery near my residence," she interjected. Robert, unfazed, observed their reactions with a steady gaze. Queen Zorvaia hesitated momentarily, realizing their hasty judgment. Perhaps their eagerness to assign blame stemmed from a desire to ease their troubled hearts, or perhaps it was fueled by the precarious state of the kingdom.

    "I was not present in Aerakos''s Landing on that day," Robert asserted suddenly, causing Galen''s brows to shoot up and murmurs to ripple through the room.

    "Then is the girl fabricating her tale?" Juramor demanded. Without turning to the girl, Robert responded,

    "Yes," with icy composure. The girl''s mother rose abruptly, her expression one of terror.

    "I beg forgiveness on behalf of my daughter, Queen Zorvaia. She is young and still learning. Her words hold no weight. Please, I implore you to pardon her," she pleaded. Zorvaia regarded the woman with a gaze that hinted at a long-forgotten emotion, one Galen hadn''t seen in quite some time.

    "She is indeed young, my Queen. I advise leniency," Galen suggested. Zorvaia nodded in agreement.

    "Yes, I had intended to do so," she affirmed, rising once more, duty eclipsing her momentary sorrow. "Your daughter is forgiven. May she learn from this error. However, perjury in court is a grave offense, punishable by death," Zorvaia reminded, a decree that Galen found somewhat severe, though he understood her reasoning.

    "You''re only two years older than me," the girl muttered bitterly. Her mother swiftly silenced her with a sharp slap across the mouth, casting a glare that went unnoticed by the rest.

    "I declare this trial concluded!" Juramor proclaimed loudly and hastily, as if eager to be the first to utter the words. Queen Zorvaia descended the steps of her throne, visibly relieved. Ser Therone bowed respectfully as she passed by.

    "Shall we dismiss everyone, Your Grace?" Ser Therone inquired. She nodded in assent.

    "Yes, clear the room and wait outside for me. I wish to speak with Lord Galen privately," she instructed. Though Ser Therone''s gaze flickered toward Galen, he remained silent, complying with her orders. With swift efficiency, the knights ushered everyone out, and Galen observed the mother dragging her protesting daughter by the ear. They bore a striking resemblance... As Ser Therone bowed deeply and exited, closing the doors behind him, Galen turned to the Queen. "What is it you wish to discuss with me, my Queen?" he inquired. Zorvaia fidgeted nervously with her fingers, seeming uncertain. She opened her mouth, then closed it, appearing unsure of how to proceed.

    "Speak plainly, Your Grace," Galen urged gently. She nodded in acknowledgment.

    "Lord Galen... I am aware of the duty incumbent upon every ruler, whether Queen or King, to secure a consort for the continuation of their bloodline. My brother''s untimely demise has left me without a possible heir," she confessed, her tone tinged with awkwardness. Galen was taken aback. He never anticipated such words coming from her own lips.

    "You are still young, my Queen. The gods grant you perhaps a century ahead of you," he reassured her, offering a warm smile. She chuckled lightly, yet the awkwardness persisted. Perhaps it wasn''t solely about securing an heir. Perhaps there were personal desires at play.

    "Lord Galen, please keep this between us, but my heart longs for a man from across the sea," she revealed. Galen maintained a neutral expression, ensuring she didn''t feel uncomfortable. Her willingness to confide in him indicated a level of trust he hadn''t realized she held.

    "Who is this man?" he inquired gently. A faint blush colored her cheeks as she averted her gaze. Every detail was a poignant reminder for her...

    "The Prince of Turukhan," she murmured softly. Galen leaned in slightly, his interest piqued. "And which of them might this man be?" he pressed. This time, she met his gaze with a touch of bravery. "Prince Dimer Altan," she disclosed.

 Chapter 13|Aelar Vaellyn the Fourth|Niran, The City of a Thousand Doors|

    Rhea and the Altan girl had set a modest table for their fellowship, arrayed with their best goblets for their new companions and the dried meats brought by the Altans. Breads of various kinds lay amongst grapes Amelia and Zayn had foraged from the forest. The meal''s sole drawback was that it would be consumed on the floor. Tarkan had proposed using the boat or a table, but Aelar had dismissed the suggestion. Now, Tarkan sat opposite Aelar, goblet in hand, scrutinizing it with a growing unease. The imagery on these goblets had made him wary, but

    Rhea had assured him all would be well. He had noticed the Altan girl tracing her fingers over the goblets, particularly Aelar¡¯s, which was adorned with dragon handles. She had not inquired about its origin, only admiring its craftsmanship. Meanwhile, the other Altan boy, Dimer, had ventured to swim on a distant beach, claiming he needed to maintain his training. Aelar harbored other suspicions. It had been a week since Tarkan had received the mark on his eye, yet Dimer¡¯s own mark had yet to appear, despite his efforts. The boy remained stubbornly independent, refusing the Altan girl¡¯s offers of help.

    Other than Tarkan¡¯s mark changing, there had been no real progress among them, which, in a way, relieved Aelar. His task was to bide his time until his mother¡¯s arrival, which loomed near. She would bestow his own mark upon him, and with the newfound knowledge, he would manage these children. However, he was troubled by how his friends had grown far too friendly with the newcomers for his liking. The camaraderie extended only to the three children and the servants; a palpable tension remained between them and the soldiers, a divide Aelar had no intention of bridging. After the Zeno man had taken his sister hostage, Aelar had imagined his head on a spike, but his diplomatic nature prevailed. This was why they now shared this meal. Their camps had even merged, though the knight Zeno was relegated to sleeping near the forest.

    ¡°So, could we call this ¡®bridging the gap¡¯ for our kingdoms?¡± Tarkan suggested, raising his cup of hibiscus. An Altan servant had brought out wine, seemingly reserved for the knights, judging by their disappointed glares. Tarkan had attempted to take a cup, but the Altan girl had swiftly denied him..

    The wine held a refined taste, Aelar conceded, perhaps the finest he had ever savored, though his experiences with such luxuries were sparse. He smiled, raising his cup.

    ¡°Let this be the bridge,¡± he declared, taking a sip. With his fork, he speared one of the cheeses brought by the Altans, savoring its light, creamy texture, more suited to bread.

    ¡°What do you eat in Turukhan?¡± asked Amelia, her eyes shining with curiosity. Despite their past, she seemed enthralled by tales of their origins, ceaselessly querying them.

    ¡°Oh, you know,¡± Tarkan replied, swirling his goblet thoughtfully. ¡°Roasted turkeys, lamb, and cow, accompanied by an array of fruits,¡± he recounted, popping a grape into his mouth before taking a sip. ¡°And breads and cheeses you likely haven¡¯t encountered, alongside the finest pies,¡± he added, gazing into his goblet with a hint of nostalgia.

    ¡°And the desserts,¡± Derya chimed in, delicately indulging in bread and cheese, echoed by a nod from Dimer.

    ¡°We mostly subsisted on fish,¡± Ayrn interjected softly, prodding one of the dried meats with his fork. Tarkan shrugged, reclining slightly from the meal.

    ¡°We had our share of fish too, although I could do without. Sometimes, at our dinners, the Frostheim folk attend, and it¡¯s fish all around,¡± he remarked, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

    ¡°They all smell and look like fish, I must say, but give me game pie any day,¡± remarked Tarkan, raising his goblet to his lips. Aelar glanced past his own meal to where his men and theirs were gathered, sharing a tense atmosphere. Stitched lips and scarce glances passed between them. Here, only he, Ayrn, and Rhea dined with the three children. Zayn would have been present, but he opted for a solitary walk over the meal. Aelar couldn¡¯t help but wonder if his absence stemmed from annoyance or perhaps resentment. Though he pondered his own culpability, it seemed too absurd to consider.

    ¡°What other Altan bore the mark of the moon in their eye?¡± Zayn queried, leaning against a nearby tree.

    ¡°The Words foretell Altan himself, not some child ignorant of such marks,¡± Aelar retorted, gesturing dismissively.

    ¡°And isn¡¯t it perilous? Were it me, I wouldn¡¯t permit those three to roam freely here,¡± Zayn muttered. Aelar nudged his half-brother, causing him to straighten. At that moment, Aelar realized Zayn stood taller than himself.

    ¡°Thank the gods you¡¯re not our leader,¡± he retorted icily. ¡°But I am. Forge alliances with these children, and our purpose becomes that much simpler,¡± Aelar asserted, as if it were the most obvious truth.

    "Pride taints their words with falsehood. What if they''re merely children of some minor lord from a distant land? Why risk so much?" Zayn countered sharply. Aelar closed his eyes, seeking inner calm. In his mind''s eye, he envisioned Rhea beside him, her counsel urging him to maintain composure. Patience and serenity were virtues he must master if he aimed to rule.

    ¡°I don¡¯t believe these children deceive us. Your words stem from folly. I, too, once harbored disdain for foreigners, but...¡± Aelar paused, a smirk playing at his lips. ¡°A king must act with prudence.¡± Thus concluded their exchange, leaving Aelar burdened with more guilt than he cared to admit. He observed Tarkan as the boy absentmindedly plucked another grape, chewing thoughtfully.

    ¡°Any developments with your mark?¡± Aelar inquired casually. But instead of Tarkan responding, it was Derya who spoke up.

    ¡°I think I''ve discovered something new,¡± she chimed. ¡°It''s hard to explain, but it''s as if...¡± She paused, then chuckled. ¡°Let me just show you.¡± Rising to her feet, all eyes were drawn to her. Even the men in the background turned their gaze toward her. With one arm outstretched to the sky and the other held sideways, the sunlight danced across her skin, until... it didn¡¯t. The rays seemed to pass through her arm, and suddenly she was jumping and laughing with delight.

    "Oh, gods..." Rhea whispered, her gaze fixed on the spectacle before her. Aelar shared her apprehension as he surveyed the array of food. He had never anticipated such marks to possess genuine power. The sun and the moon? What potential could they unlock for a mortal? Altan, with his moon mark, had wrought havoc upon the world, but Aelar suspected the truth had been distorted by legend. True power resided in the flames, wielded by his forebears to conquer and reign. Yet, Derya''s newfound ability exceeded all expectations. If she manipulated the sun''s rays, the possibilities were boundless. Aelar could only imagine Zayn''s reaction if he were present.

    ¡°How are you doing this?¡± Dimer exclaimed, rising in astonishment. He cautiously reached out, his hand meeting an invisible barrier.

    ¡°I... I don¡¯t know,¡± Derya stammered, clearly awestruck. ¡°Aelar and Ayrn said to channel our willpower, so I willed the sun to empower me, and... this happened,¡± she explained, marveling at her own feat. Aelar rose abruptly, abandoning his meal in fascination.

    ¡°It seems you''ve grasped it,¡± Aelar remarked tersely, his gaze lingering on Derya. ¡°While you two seem to lag behind,¡± he added pointedly, directing his words at Tarkan and Dimer. Dimer averted his eyes, his frustration evident, while Tarkan merely took another sip of his hibiscus before setting it aside.

    ¡°Only time will reveal,¡± Tarkan murmured, stretching and yawning. ¡°I could use a nap now, though.¡± Aelar sighed, slapping his hand across his face as Tarkan rose and departed to rest once more. Derya watched silently, her earlier excitement fading as her arm gradually regained visibility. Suddenly, a loud curse shattered the tranquility from the neighboring table. Aelar''s hand instinctively went to where his hilt should have been, only to find it absent. The expletive had erupted from one of the knights, a man known as Bataar. He rose swiftly, drawing his sword, his comrades following suit, except for Zeno, who remained seated. Tarkan paused, turning to watch with wide eyes, yet he made no move to intervene.

    ¡°I can make him sit in an instant,¡± Ayrn whispered softly in Aelar''s ear. Aelar cast a brief glance at him but remained still. He wanted to observe how his own men would handle the situation. They too had risen, their demeanor defiant, as if they had committed no offense.

    ¡°Don¡¯t pretend you''re oblivious,¡± Kamil retorted coldly to Bataar. ¡°A fiend like you shouldn¡¯t have¡ª¡± Feron shoved Kamil forcefully.

    ¡°What nonsense are you spouting?¡± he snapped. ¡°These guests share our meal, and you speak to them like this?¡± he spat. Kamil turned on Feron aggressively, then shifted his focus to Aelar.

    ¡°You''re familiar with their tales, just as we are,¡± Kamil addressed Aelar. ¡°All of you are. The only ones oblivious seem to be those who committed the acts,¡± he sneered.

    ¡°I don¡¯t agree,¡± Dimer interjected suddenly, then sighed, rubbing his forehead. ¡°I understand your people may believe we ''Altans'' are guilty of something, of which I am unaware,¡± he stated matter-of-factly. ¡°But whatever accusations you level against us, I can confidently state we are innocent.¡±

    ¡°Why deny it when the evidence is so glaring?¡± Xeron chimed in, aligning with his friend. Feron shot him a look, seemingly offended by his support of Kamil.

    ¡°Of the Three Swords, the Altan House alone refrains from warfare,¡± Derya interjected matter-of-factly. ¡°That''s why, unlike other realms, we boast no illustrious knights or legendary princes among us,¡± she explained. Tarkan snorted dismissively and departed, leaving Derya''s gaze piercing into his back.

    "Bold words for one of your stature," Bataar muttered, sheathing his sword, the fire in his eyes dimming. "You bear a mark on your hand and suddenly you think you''re invincible," he sneered, then turned away. "Tell your men to mind their tongues," he muttered, walking off in Tarkan''s wake. "Some ''bridge'' this turned out to be." Bataar trailed after Tarkan, leaving the others in his wake, until even Zeno rose to follow.

    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    "Duty calls," he declared with feigned cheerfulness before departing to join the boy he was sworn to.

    ¡°You should have allowed me to handle it,¡± Ayrn remarked, but Aelar shoved his head away, suddenly irate. Why did his own men persist in challenging his decisions? He was their king; what made them believe they knew better? Though Ayrn pushed his hand aside, Aelar barely reacted. His mind was set on finding his brother in the forest.

    ¡°Tidy up this mess, or enlist the men''s servants to do so,¡± he instructed coldly as he walked away. Rhea trailed after him, but he halted her with a gesture. It was his brother he sought to speak with.

    ¡°Please,¡± she whispered softly, gripping his hand. He wanted to refuse, knowing his brother would offer the most sensible counsel, not a woman. Yet, the earnestness in her gaze disarmed him. They silently ventured into the forest until they discovered a serene stream to rest by. Aelar felt somewhat foolish, pondering if past kings had ever engaged in such unceremonious acts as sitting alone with a woman. But then, he reminded himself, he was not yet king.

    ¡°I''m grateful for the tranquility of our island,¡± Rhea remarked, brushing her hair with her fingers. ¡°In legends, it was depicted as a cold and cursed place, but our reality couldn''t be more different. We''ve yet to explore much of the world, but I believe there''s no place as beautiful as this,¡± she said, smiling at him. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡± Aelar nodded slowly, uncertain of her intentions. With a sigh, she settled beside him, resting her head against his shoulder. Aelar considered shifting away briefly but decided it would only add to the awkwardness. ¡°What troubles you?¡± she inquired softly. Aelar snorted.

    "Even if I knew where to start," he muttered. "Though my greatest challenge must be these children and their retinue," he confessed.

    "How so?" Rhea inquired. "Is it the disputes they spark, or perhaps their knights?" she suggested. He shook his head.

    "I can overlook all of that, but it troubles me. I cannot comprehend why three children¡ª you must grasp the gravity of the situation. Princes and princesses of their realm sent to us, uncertain if we would extend hospitality and truly meet their needs. What rational king would take such a risk, especially with such marks? It''s utterly absurd," he exclaimed, realizing his voice had risen, though Rhea remained unperturbed.

    "I found that peculiar as well," she agreed, gazing up at him. "But they''re gentle children, especially Derya and Dimer. Though I can''t say the same for Tarkan," she added, shivering.

    "Why is that?" he inquired. She shrugged. "Perhaps because he reminds me of Altan from the legends. Of course, I''ve no knowledge of the man, but this boy unnerves me. Simply being near him made me uneasy," she confessed, straightening up, her gaze growing more serious. "You''re right that we don''t treat their marks with the gravity they warrant. We know those marks hold power, yet we allow them to roam freely with them," she observed, looking at him, realization dawning on her.

    "Are we mere fools, then?" he asked her. She faltered, struggling to articulate her thoughts, then took a deep breath, composing herself.

    "I believe we are part of something greater," she said, placing a hand on his chest, locking eyes with him. "Remember, our mother dubbed you the Orchestrator of History. She foresaw you penning a new chapter on this blank page of life," she continued, her grip tightening. "Encounters like ours with those bearing such marks cannot be mere chance," she asserted firmly. "There is a deeper significance at play here," she insisted.

    "I will not do anything to sever our bond with them," Aelar declared suddenly. The image of Tarkan flashed in his mind¡ªhis smile, his mannerisms. Aelar believed that if the boy ascended to kingship, he would make a formidable ally. Whether he would bend the knee or not remained to be seen.

    "Why is that?" Rhea inquired, drawing her face closer to Aelar''s. He deliberated for a moment, considering whether to divulge the full truth, but opted against it.

    "I believe they will be valuable allies in our forthcoming conquests," he stated calmly. Slowly, he encircled her neck with his hand, drawing their heads closer until their foreheads touched. "I will not do anything to ruin us," he assured her with an unusual tranquility. He was resolute in that conviction. Rhea held his gaze for a moment longer, and suddenly, a flush of warmth spread across his cheeks, yet he made no move to withdraw. Her eyes drifted to his lips, and instinctively, he found himself leaning in towards her.

    For the first time in his life, his lips met another woman''s, and it was perhaps the most exhilarating sensation he had ever experienced. Yet, overwhelmed with guilt, he pulled away abruptly.

    "Sorry," she muttered, touching her lips as if she were scarcely present. Clutching her chest and biting her lip, she retreated into herself. Aelar stood up, gazing at her for a moment before turning away and striding back to their camp. He avoided the beach, fearing encounters with his friends or the foreigners. He had no desire for the cold glances he knew awaited him. Aelar had no intention of dishonoring himself with anything premarital, but he feared he already had. A legend flashed through his mind, a cautionary tale from the annals of history.

    It recounted a time when Aelar the First, still a chaste young man, had yet to marry his eldest sister. One fateful night, she had entered his chambers, her features concealed by a thin robe. Awakening to her presence, Aelar had recoiled, refusing her advances. Legend had it that three women, their beauty a curse that bewitched all who beheld them, had roamed the land. Two were Aelar''s sisters, his future wives, while the third was Safya, one of the First Ones. Despite the allure, Aelar had rebuked her, ordering her to dress and not shame him with her rash desires. The following day, he had wedded and bedded her, but only on his own terms.

    As he entered the camp, a bright idea flickered in his mind, only to be extinguished as quickly as it came. He realized he couldn''t proceed without his mother''s guidance, and a sense of disappointment washed over him. "What''s wrong with you?" came a voice from beside him. Aelar nearly jumped in surprise, having forgotten that the knight Zeno was nearby. Curling his lip at the man, Aelar strode past him towards the camp. "Right back at you," the man called after him, but Aelar paid him no mind. He halted in the camp, realizing only the three children were present. Derya and Dimer frolicked in the ocean, while Tarkan rested in the hammock he had fashioned for himself. Aelar felt oddly out of place among them, as if he were much older and wiser.

    "Aelar, come join us," Dimer called from the water. Aelar snorted, acknowledging the truth of his seniority compared to them. Tarkan, however, seemed unperturbed as he lounged in his hammock with closed eyes.

    "I''d prefer not to," Aelar replied, pulling up a crate to sit on. Derya emerged from the ocean, her clothes clinging to her form.

    "Why not? It''s quite refreshing on a hot day like today," she remarked, her beauty suddenly striking him. Though perhaps not as captivating as Rhea, she was a pearl in her own right. It was a shame she was already spoken for.

    "He''s afraid of the water," Dimer chimed in, grinning widely as he joined them. Aelar felt a twinge of annoyance at the children''s perception of their relationship. It was hardly that of teacher and student; rather, it felt more like husbands acknowledging each other solely for the sake of their wives.

    "Leave him be," Tarkan interjected. Aelar shivered, surprised that the boy was still awake. Tarkan sighed and rose to his feet, wearing a frown. "Can''t get a moment''s rest with you three chattering, can I?" he grumbled. Derya playfully splashed water onto Tarkan''s face, causing him to tumble off his hammock in the least dignified manner possible.

    "You can sleep whenever you please on this island," she teased, helping him back to his feet. He sighed, glancing down at his damp clothes before turning to Aelar with a laugh.

    "A little fun never hurt anyone, right?" Dimer chimed in. "Even princes and kings deserve some joy." Tarkan''s laughter faded as he turned back to Aelar.

    "You are a king, aren''t you?" he inquired. Aelar pondered the boy''s question. For some inexplicable reason, he felt compelled to affirm it, but he knew the truth¡ªhe wasn''t yet a king, no matter how regally he acted.

    "Not yet," he confessed at last. Dimer emerged from the water, eyeing Tarkan with narrowed eyes.

    "What will you do when you are?" Tarkan inquired. "When you finally wield absolute power over your people?" Aelar wanted to scoff at the question, finding it rather presumptuous. "Will you come and eradicate us all?" Tarkan''s question caught Aelar off guard.

    "What are you implying, Tarkan?" Dimer interjected, joining him, but Tarkan disregarded him. The marks on his eye seemed to gleam brighter now, particularly noticeable in the dusk, with the moon looming overhead, sending shivers down Aelar''s spine as he realized the extent of the boy''s command over it.

    "That''s not my intention," Aelar responded. "In the future, if you were to become king¡ª" He was interrupted by Derya.

    "Tarkan, a king?" she exclaimed incredulously. "He can hardly be deemed an heir!" she protested, but Tarkan merely smiled at her.

    "Wouldn''t I make a splendid king, though?" he mused, his gaze distant. With a fervor that seemed to sear Aelar''s skin, he took Derya''s hand. "Imagine it. You by my side as Queen. Who else but you?" Tarkan sighed wistfully. "The day that comes¡­" He trailed off, still clasping Derya''s hand, her shocked expression not escaping Aelar''s notice. Whether Tarkan truly comprehended the weight of his words to the young girl was unclear, but regardless, he spoke with conviction.

    "Let''s await that day then," Dimer remarked, crossing his arms with an amused smile. Tarkan nodded in agreement, retreating slightly before turning his attention back to Aelar.

    "I know your people likely do not favor us," Tarkan conceded. "Despite that, I want to be by your side when I ascend to power." He extended his hand, and Aelar almost instinctively grasped it. The mark on Tarkan''s face glowed so intensely now that it cast a light across his features. He turned his gaze toward the ocean. "Our firm hands can be the bridge that spans the ocean, helping you rise from the ashes of your forgotten kingdom," he declared. Dimer watched Tarkan intently, while Derya still seemed unable to process the words he had spoken to her.

    "I must admit, Tarkan," Aelar said, trying to regain his composure and snap out of the trance the boy''s words had cast. "You have a way with people''s thoughts." Tarkan shook his head.

    "I''m merely showing what is possible," he replied. Aelar looked out at the sunset as Tarkan released his hand and knelt down to pick up a crude shell. It was sharp and unattractive, certainly not something any hermit crab would have ever worn. With the crude shell, Tarkan carved a deep line down his palm, and blood quickly began to flow from the wound. Aelar watched in a mix of fascination and horror.

    "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern. Tarkan looked up at him, his eyes blazing with determination.

    "Sealing a pact," he said. "A bond of blood to signify our alliance." He held his bleeding palm out to Aelar, waiting for him to reciprocate. Aelar hesitated for a moment, the weight of the gesture sinking in. Then, with a resolute nod, he took the shell from Tarkan and made a similar cut on his own palm. They clasped hands, their blood mingling as they sealed their pact. "To our future," Tarkan said solemnly.

    "To our future," Aelar echoed, feeling a strange mix of hope and trepidation. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the glow of Tarkan''s mark seemed to burn even brighter.

    "One day, you and I," Tarkan began, his voice filled with unwavering conviction, "will rule the world side by side." As he spoke, his red eye glowed intensely, and it almost seemed as if blood was flowing down its sides.

    "What a hopeful thought," Aelar breathed, captivated by the intensity of Tarkan''s vision. Tarkan withdrew his hand, the promise of something great lingering in the air.

    "One day," he repeated, his voice carrying the weight of destiny. Dimer came to stand by Tarkan, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. "It will be just you and me," he said, his tone equally resolute. Aelar felt a surge of emotion, a mixture of hope, ambition, and a touch of fear. He looked at the two boys before him, feeling the enormity of the path they were setting out on together.

 Chapter 14|Dimer|Niran, City of a Thousand Doors|

    Dimer watched absentmindedly as Rhea''s deft fingers braided Derya¡¯s hair with practiced ease. Each movement was precise, almost reverent, as if she were weaving a spell. Derya stood perfectly still, letting Rhea''s skilled hands work their magic.

    "This is how we braid our hair," Rhea murmured, her voice soft as she brushed her hands down the length of the braid. It gleamed in the sunlight, a sleek, intricate design, as meticulously crafted as a newly forged sword from the hearth. Derya touched the braids carefully, almost as if she feared they might unravel at the slightest pressure. Then, her face lit up with a smile. She edged over to the stream nearby, knelt down, and peered into its reflective surface. When she stood up again, her smile was brighter than Dimer had seen in days.

    "These are so beautiful," she said, her voice brimming with joy that Dimer wished he could share. He felt a pang of envy watching her, so effortlessly delighted by such a simple thing. Meanwhile, Tarkan moved through their temporary camp with a lightness that seemed almost alien to Dimer, who couldn¡¯t share it. Since his conversation with Aelar a week of nights ago, Tarkan had acted as if a charmed path lay before him, free of obstacles or pitfalls. It was as though he walked on a road where no horse carriage could get stuck, where every step was assured and easy. Dimer wished he could match his brother''s confidence, but his own mark had yet to reveal itself.

    The black residue on his skin had receded slightly, a small sign of change, but nothing more. No matter how much he willed it, no matter how hard he concentrated, nothing happened. He stubbornly refused to ask Derya for help. If he was meant to have this mark, he wanted to earn it on his own terms. As he watched Derya and Rhea by the stream, Dimer''s mind wandered back to the situation they found themselves in. They had been given a reprieve, but it felt fragile, temporary. He glanced at Tarkan, who seemed so at ease, and wondered how he managed it. Dimer''s thoughts swirled with uncertainty and a longing for the same unshakeable faith that Tarkan seemed to possess. Dimer couldn''t help but feel a gnawing doubt. The island''s unfamiliar terrain and the tenuous alliances they had formed left him on edge. His gaze returned to Derya, her newfound joy so different to his own restless mind.

    ¡°Dimer, how does it look?¡± Derya asked, showing him her braid with pride. Dimer nodded, envying her joy.

    ¡°They look great,¡± he replied curtly. Rhea laughed softly, covering her mouth as she drew nearer to Dimer, her gaze locking onto his.

    ¡°Is something troubling you?¡± she inquired, her voice tinged with a knowing edge. He pondered whether to unburden himself to her but found it difficult to trust her completely. He wasn¡¯t ready to reveal his feelings. ¡°You can tell us,¡± Rhea reassured, glancing between Derya and him. ¡°Nothing escapes a girl¡¯s mouth, right?¡± Derya nodded, hugging Dimer warmly. When her marked hand touched him, it felt as though a veil had lifted, clearing his mind and easing his worries.

    ¡°Oh, nothing really,¡± he said, though his evasion only deepened their disappointment. ¡°I was just thinking about Tarkan¡¯s mark. His eye has been entirely consumed by it, and he refuses to speak of it. Doesn¡¯t that strike you as odd?¡± Rhea withdrew slightly, her interest waning at the mention of Tarkan, but Derya remained attentive, her curiosity piqued.

    "It''s like his eye is the night sky," she exclaimed with wonder, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. Rhea noticed and grabbed Derya by the shoulders, leaning in close, her eyes narrowing.

    "Derya, are you by any chance... attracted to that boy?" Rhea asked seriously. Derya''s cheeks flushed so deeply that Tarkan might have thought her head had turned into a tomato. When she remained silent, Rhea sighed.

    "A maiden like you could do so much better. Is there a shortage of princes where you come from?" she asked pointedly. Derya lifted her chin and crossed her arms, turning away from Rhea.

    "I think Tarkan¡¯s quite handsome," she declared hotly. Dimer snorted, realizing he had no interest in listening to girls discuss their crushes. Perhaps he felt a twinge of jealousy, since no girl had ever shown an interest in him, but he doubted it. Once, he had seen a girl he thought was the most beautiful in the world, but she was as unattainable as everything else in his life.

    ¡°I worry about that boy,¡± Rhea said suddenly, looking down. Her eyes had a distant quality, as if she were grappling with thoughts she barely understood herself. Dimer and Derya exchanged confused glances.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Dimer asked cautiously. She hesitated, then shook her head.

    ¡°He¡¯s your friend, and I hardly know him. It wouldn¡¯t be my place to speak of him,¡± she said, shaking her head more emphatically, as if convincing herself of her own words. Derya shared a brief look with Dimer.

    ¡°No, you can tell us. I know Tarkan can be¡­¡± She trailed off, laughing lightly. ¡°He really is great, though,¡± she sighed, gazing at the sky with a dreamy expression. Rhea smiled at Derya¡¯s wistfulness.

    ¡°I worry that such carelessness isn¡¯t good,¡± Rhea admitted. Dimer shook his head immediately, knowing she misunderstood.

    ¡°I know he seems that way, but he cares. He¡¯s smart and always aware of what he¡¯s doing,¡± Dimer explained. Rhea shrugged.

    ¡°As I said, I hardly know the boy, and he makes no effort to be known.¡± She shook herself slightly. ¡°Just be careful,¡± she cautioned suddenly. Dimer narrowed his eyes and stood up. He knew Tarkan wasn¡¯t what this woman thought. She was right that she hardly knew him, and Tarkan wouldn¡¯t bother correcting her either. He was so kind it was as if Ylith the Kindly had blessed the boy with his nature.

    ¡°How come Dimer can¡¯t meet the Fjords with us?¡± Derya cried, her small hands tugging insistently on Hajr¡¯s sleeve. They were but children, no older than five, their eyes wide with innocent curiosity. Hajr gently pushed her back, a soft smile on his lips.

    ¡°It is not for him to attend with us,¡± Hajr replied, his tone kind but firm. Tarkan, arms crossed, stomped his foot in frustration. He could sense their concern, yet he was loath to defy a decree so ancient and immutable.

    ¡°It¡¯s fine, really,¡± Dimer insisted, though his earnestness did little to convince. Tarkan rolled his eyes, disbelief written plainly on his face.

    ¡°You always told us you wanted to see the fish people, and here they come!¡± Tarkan exclaimed, his excitement bubbling over as he jumped up and down. Hajr¡¯s hand shot out, catching Tarkan by the ear and pulling sternly.

    ¡°They are not fish people, and you must not call them such in their presence. Do you understand?¡± Hajr¡¯s voice was sharp. Tarkan recoiled, rubbing his reddened ear, muttering under his breath. ¡°Do you?¡± Hajr repeated, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

    ¡°Yes, okay, Hajr Shah. I understand.¡± Tarkan¡¯s voice was sullen. Hajr¡¯s sternness melted into a smile as he patted each of their heads.

    ¡°I would like for Dimer to join us, but it is not my place to decide. Those who came before us set these standards, and I doubt the House of Fjord would understand if we broke them,¡± Hajr explained, his words carrying the weight of unyielding tradition.

    ¡°Well then, they should grow some brains,¡± Derya declared, raising her hand defiantly. Dimer¡¯s giggle was a ripple of laughter in the tense air.

    ¡°If he¡¯s not going, I¡¯m not either,¡± Tarkan announced, dropping to the floor with stubborn resolve. Hajr¡¯s eyes gleamed with amusement.

    ¡°Then I will personally strap you to a chair and take you there myself. Is that agreeable to you?¡± Hajr asked, his tone a mix of jest and command. Tarkan shrugged, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

    ¡°I¡¯ll just go and hide. Yes, that¡¯s what I¡¯ll do.¡± Tarkan leaped to his feet, seizing Derya and Dimer by their hands and sprinting away, pulling them into his whirlwind of rebellion.

    ¡°If we tell Mother, she¡¯ll make Hajr let you come,¡± Tarkan declared, his voice brimming with conviction. Though the claim held truth, Dimer had already resigned himself to the dictates of tradition.

    ¡°It¡¯s fine, Tarkan. I don¡¯t want to come; it¡¯ll only make things harder for Hajr,¡± Dimer said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. Derya rolled her eyes, exasperation mingling with concern.

    ¡°Come on, Dimer, don¡¯t be like that,¡± she implored. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be the same without you.¡± Dimer snorted, his cynicism a shield against her earnestness. ¡°

    You and Tarkan would be together without me in the way,¡± he pointed out, his words sharp. Derya blushed, stealing a glance at Tarkan, who seemed blissfully unaware, before giving Dimer a playful shove. Dimer¡¯s laughter rang out, carefree and loud.

    ¡°Where are you three running off to like that?¡± The voice, harsh and disdainful, sliced through their mirth. It was Erdem, his sister Ayana trailing behind him, both children of Hajr. Erdem¡¯s sneer, his nose wrinkled in disdain, made them feel like vermin caught in the light.

    ¡°Nowhere really,¡± Dimer replied, his attempt at nonchalance betrayed by the tightness in his voice.

    ¡°Nowhere, huh?¡± Erdem said, towering over the three of them.

    ¡°Nowhere that¡¯s your business,¡± Tarkan snorted, laughing. Erdem only laughed in return, but his sister shouldered him aside. Ayana wasn¡¯t like the other girls Dimer often saw at balls and tournaments. She scorned dresses and gowns, deeming them far too ¡°maidenly¡± for her taste. She preferred a tunic and pants, her shirt always a size too big.

    ¡°Of course it isn¡¯t our business,¡± Ayana said, glaring at her brother. ¡°So I don¡¯t know why we should be asking.¡±

    ¡°Well, we don¡¯t really know either,¡± Derya said, prompting Tarkan to slap his palm across his face. Erdem¡¯s laughter rang out, mocking and cruel, as he pointed at them.

    ¡°Dumb, dumber, and even dumber,¡± Erdem jeered, laughing uncontrollably. His mirth was so intense he had to lean on a knight¡¯s stand that held a spear. Dimer found no humor in it, and neither did Tarkan, who delivered a rough kick to Erdem¡¯s shin. The laughter stopped abruptly as Erdem grabbed Tarkan by the collar, lifting him despite Tarkan¡¯s struggles. Derya cried out for him to let go, but he only released his grip when Ayana intervened, taking Tarkan herself. Erdem glanced at her warily before muttering.

    ¡°You three fucking mistakes,¡± he hissed venomously. Dimer wished he hadn¡¯t heard it, but the words cut deep, and he could only try to ignore them. Ayana responded with a solid punch to Erdem¡¯s face, knocking him back though his scorn remained.

    ¡°Take that back,¡± Tarkan spat, his voice filled with rage. Erdem chuckled, leaning down to look Tarkan in the eyes.

    ¡°What if I don¡¯t?¡± he sneered, then suddenly turned his cruel attention to Dimer. ¡°I can understand why you roam this castle, but how come he does? He¡¯s not even a bastard, just some trash we picked up on the street out of pity. Just because we put robes on you and called you ¡®prince¡¯ doesn¡¯t make you one of us.¡± He shoved Dimer over. ¡°You little dumb shit.¡± Tarkan reacted swiftly, punching Erdem in the groin. Erdem shouted in pain, keeling over. In that moment, if Ayana hadn¡¯t intervened, Dimer was certain Tarkan might have killed him. Tarkan had seized the knight¡¯s spear and was readying to strike when Ayana kicked it out of his hand.

    ¡°Calm down, Tarkan,¡± she told him carefully, holding him as if he might lash out again. But he remained still. The look he gave Erdem stirred memories in Dimer, memories of eyes filled with hatred, glowing blood-red with a fire kindled by love. Ayana called for a guard who happened to be patrolling the hall at that moment. They were swiftly escorted to their rooms. Dimer doubted either child spoke of the incident afterward, but it had left Erdem rattled. Erdem could undoubtedly overpower the three of them in a physical confrontation, but it wasn¡¯t sheer strength that unnerved Dimer; it was the intensity of Tarkan¡¯s resolve in that moment, a resolve poised on the edge of violence. A man with such unbridled determination was a dangerous ally, or a fearsome foe. No one else had glimpsed that side of Tarkan, save for Dimer and Derya, who seemed only to grow fonder of him.

    "Oh, Dimer, don¡¯t go before you eat with us!" Rhea exclaimed, revealing a skin pouch that likely held food.

    "Not everyone gets an invite to an exclusively girls'' meal," Derya chimed in cheerfully, coaxing him to stay seated. Dimer acquiesced, mostly because Derya asked him to, though he''d planned to return to their camp soon.

    "Should I call Tarkan?" he asked, watching Rhea closely for any hint of reaction. Her gaze flickered from him to the skin pouch she opened, but she remained silent. Derya shook her head.

    "I think he was speaking with Aelar before we left. Whatever it was, it seemed important." Dimer couldn¡¯t help but wonder about the conversations between Tarkan and Aelar. Tarkan divulged nothing about their discussions, merely dismissing them as uninteresting. Dimer wished he would craft a more believable excuse. Rhea revealed some bread and cheese, along with a small closed vase that likely contained water or hibiscus tea. It appeared those were the only beverages available on the island.

    "This part of the forest is so lovely," Derya remarked, delicately spreading cheese on her bread and taking a bite. Rhea nodded in agreement, her eyes brightening with appreciation for their surroundings.

    "It has to be the most beautiful place in the world, don¡¯t you think?" Rhea said, cupping an unfamiliar flower nestled within a bush beside her. She brought it to her nose, inhaling its fragrance with rapid blinks, then carefully plucked it, extending it to Dimer for his inspection. He leaned in and took a sniff, surprised to find it pleasantly fragrant, though Derya appeared even more enchanted.

    "These flowers are truly stunning and smell divine," Derya remarked, her gaze wandering over the blooms as if she were seeing them for the first time. Yet, her attention was drawn to one particular flower, which she cradled between her hands. "Is this bush dead? Why are all these flowers like this?" she inquired, lifting it for Rhea''s scrutiny. Rhea''s smile was gentle.

    "I love that you asked," she replied, mirroring Derya''s gesture by cupping a flower of her own before plucking it from its stem. "This is an everdying," she explained. Holding the flower in her palm for a moment, she then revealed it again, to their astonishment. The bloom, once wilted and withered, now burst forth with life, its petals adorned with a milky white and bright yellow hue, vibrant and alive.

    "How does that happen?" Dimer asked, his shock evident as he plucked one of the flowers for himself, watching in amazement as it bloomed before his eyes. Derya did the same, emitting a delighted squeal when her flower followed suit.

    "Well, in our botany books, I read that these flowers exhibit this behavior to deter creatures from picking them. They mimic the appearance of wilting, but in reality, they are very much alive. Once they are picked, having held back their true colors for so long, they bloom fully," Rhea explained, holding out the flower for their inspection. "The most beautiful," she claimed, though Derya appeared preoccupied with another question.

    "How do you know that''s how they do it? I never thought flowers had their own thoughts," Derya pondered aloud. "Or that they want to live," Dimer added, studying his flower intently as if searching for hidden secrets within its petals. Rhea''s expression momentarily shifted, as if she regretted revealing too much, but she quickly laughed it off.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    "Well, our scholars have determined that, not me," she deflected, brushing aside a strand of hair before taking a bite of bread and averting her gaze. There was something enigmatic about her demeanor, but Dimer chose not to pry if she wasn''t willing to share. As always, their curiosity led only to disappointment.

    "Princess Derya, Prince Dimer, I think it''s getting darker, so it''s best we leave now," a voice interjected. Rhea jumped in surprise, and Dimer whirled around to see their sworn knight standing there, looking more awkward than a knight ought to.

    "How long have you been there?" Derya demanded, taken aback by his sudden appearance. He scratched his head, clearly embarrassed.

    "Since you arrived, my princess," N¨¹men replied, his tone apologetic. Derya rolled her eyes in frustration.

    "Did Bataar instruct you to wait here? Because I distinctly recall instructing both of you to leave us in privacy," she sighed, disappointed. She reached out to grasp Rhea''s hands apologetically. "I''m so sorry about this, but thank you for the braids," she said cheerfully. Rhea smiled, brushing Derya''s sleek black hair before turning to Dimer.

    "Grow yours out, and your sister will make you some," she suggested. Dimer shook his head, finding the idea of braids unappealing.

    "Alright, we''re coming," Derya declared, but instead of immediately rising, she plucked some everdying flowers from their stems, holding them in her hand before finally standing up. Dimer couldn''t help but smile to himself, but he refrained from commenting since Derya already seemed embarrassed enough. They bid farewell to Rhea, heading off in opposite directions for some inexplicable reason. Dimer was fine with that; he had no desire to spend another moment in the company of that woman.

    "It was Tarkan who told us to be here, might I say, my princess," M¨¹nil informed her, and Derya nodded absentmindedly, her thoughts seeming distant once again. Dimer couldn''t help but wonder why Tarkan would involve the guards, but he refrained from asking; it wasn''t his place.

    "It''s odd because he himself didn''t take Zeno to where he was going," N¨¹men remarked, scratching his patchy beard. M¨¹nil nodded in agreement.

    "He instructed him to accompany us, but he went off on his own. Perhaps to track Tarkan, but I doubt he cares that much," M¨¹nil muttered. Dimer''s blood ran cold at M¨¹nil''s words. Where could Tarkan be venturing alone at this hour? He had never displayed such behavior before, typically opting to spend time around camp or in the forest with someone. A silent exchange of glances with Derya confirmed that she shared his concern.

    "An odd man, isn''t he, that Zeno? He''ll put a knife to a child''s neck to protect Tarkan but seems to hardly care," N¨¹men remarked, his confusion evident.

    "It was only a Nirani child," M¨¹nil added, then immediately regretted his words, bowing his head in shame. Derya shot a glare at the man, and Dimer silently echoed her sentiments. He couldn''t fathom why there was so much hostility among them; it made no sense, but it wasn''t his place to intervene. As the discussion shifted to Tarkan''s late-night excursion and Esen''s absence, Dimer couldn''t help but feel a sense of disappointment. At this point, he could only entertain Aelar''s grim speculation that Esen had fallen prey to a bear or some other danger. It was disheartening, fueling Tarkan''s desire to depart from this place, though he knew he couldn''t.

    "One of the reasons for our presence here is to forge an alliance with the Niranis," Dimer interjected coldly. "The Gods know we''ve nearly squandered that opportunity. We''re fortunate to have been given a second chance through their generosity. It would serve you both well to remember that," he admonished the knights. Both men nodded apologetically, and Dimer let the matter drop. In time, they would come to recognize the true kindness of these people. Despite his own reservations, they were all truly benevolent.

    They arrived at the camp to find a crackling fire, with Tarkan seated beside it, and opposite him sat Zeno, diligently sharpening his blade once more. It seemed to be his sole occupation. Dimer held back slightly, nodding to the guards as they dispersed to attend other tasks now that they were back in camp. Derya glanced at him, but he averted his gaze as though he were observing nothing at all. When he turned back, he saw Derya approaching Tarkan, the flowers she held concealed behind her back. Zeno watched them both intently. Derya took Tarkan''s hand and began to lead him away, a realization dawning on Dimer. A sudden wave of despondency washed over him as he witnessed his siblings, his two closest friends, forging a bond with each other. It felt as though Dimer himself had been left with nothing.

    "Watch and understand," came a serene voice from behind him. Dimer turned, intrigued to realize it was Zayn, Aelar¡¯s bastard brother. Dimer turned around again to watch his siblings leave.

    "Understand what? Have you come to mock me now?" Dimer addressed the man, his tone restrained. Zayn stepped up beside him.

    "I never intended to mock you. Is that what you believe my presence here signifies?" he inquired, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity. Dimer conceded silently.

    "The words slipped out unintentionally," he apologized. "I''m sorry for that." Zayn gestured for him to sit on the sand, and Dimer complied without protest.

    "You and I, we are alike, aren''t we?" Zayn proposed, studying Dimer intently. "I am a bastard, and you, you are not of true Altan blood. Merely an orphan plucked from the streets." He awaited Dimer''s response, but Dimer remained silent, fixating on the fire ahead. Zeno observed them from the corner of his eye before sheathing his sword and disappearing into the forest alone. "How do you envision yourself a decade from now, Dimer?" Zayn posed the question, catching Dimer off guard.

    "I don''t know," Dimer admitted with a shrug. Perhaps he had a vague notion, but nothing concrete.

    "I think I know," Zayn replied, a faint smile playing on his lips. "In a decade, Tarkan will be king, and Derya will be his queen, while you will remain a measly pampered prince in a distant land, ruling under his name," Zayn speculated, eliciting an eye roll from Dimer.

    "Tarkan wouldn''t do such a thing," Dimer countered firmly. "He told me I would be his Hand if he ever ascended to the throne." Zayn''s head swayed from side to side contemplatively.

    "Perhaps there is truth in it, but would your kingdom consent to such an arrangement? Surely there are numerous qualified candidates to serve as Hand, many more experienced than you. So why should it be you? Simply because you are Tarkan''s brother? Or because he pities that you may never achieve anything of significance on a hierarchical scale?" Zayn posed the probing questions. Dimer felt an urge to ignore the man''s impertinent inquiries, but a part of him yearned for answers, even if only to himself.

    "I would be Hand because I deserve it. I have observed councils and have a personal acquaintance with our Hand. I understand the demands and responsibilities it entails," Dimer retorted coldly. At times, Dimer forgot he was conversing with Nirans, not humans. These beings towered over any human, their stony complexions and luminous eyes marking them as distinctly otherworldly.

    "No, you won''t. I''m sorry," Zayn interjected suddenly, and Dimer rose to his feet, unwilling to entertain any more of the man''s words. He grew weary of people treating him in such a manner. This marked the second occasion he found himself compelled to walk away from a conversation he had no desire to endure. Why must they push him to this point? It only made it more difficult for him to find any appreciation for them. "Do not depart just yet. At least hear me out while standing. Words that cut may target wounds you never knew existed. Only then can your body begin to heal," Zayn implored. Dimer closed his eyes, urging himself to depart, but he remained rooted in place.

    "Then speak," he relented, his voice barely audible. Zayn rose to his feet as well, placing a hand on Dimer''s shoulder.

    "I speak only from what I perceive. You acknowledged our similarities, so why do you reject this notion? I do not say this to ridicule or diminish you, but to remind you," Zayn explained gently. Dimer shrugged off his hand.

    "Remind me of what, exactly?" he retorted. "If there were something worth remembering, I assure you I would recall it."

    "I''m sure you believe you possess nothing," Zayn continued, his words sending a shiver down Dimer''s spine. How did this man know? Was it some latent Niran ability they had not disclosed to them? "When in reality, you possess everything. While there may be hundreds more qualified to serve as Hand than you, if I were to speak as though I hailed from the future, I would see only you," Zayn clarified. Dimer felt his mind whirl as he attempted to comprehend the man''s meaning. "That means you have everything. The world is at your fingertips, and you possess all that is necessary to ascend to the role of Hand, to attain that power," Zayn concluded, offering a comforting smile as he placed a hand on Dimer''s head. This time, Dimer did not recoil. "I share this only out of kindness. I believe you to be a finer individual, and I would extend my assistance, given our shared likeness," Zayn expressed, though Dimer couldn''t help but wonder who, precisely, he was deemed "better" than.

    "I see," Dimer managed to articulate, feeling a sense of discomfort wash over him. He hadn''t anticipated such words from Zayn, and he couldn''t discern whether they were meant as praise or veiled admonition. Regardless, he resolved not to dwell on it.

    "So will it to happen. Only then will your desires manifest into reality. If you stand on this beach as though frozen, while life continues to ebb and flow around you, I can assure you, they will have perished and departed while you remain stagnant," Zayn leaned in, whispering into Dimer''s ear. "Only those who act upon their will depart from this world fulfilled, while those who falter in their indecision languish in their inadequacies. Do not become one of them." These words lingered in Dimer''s mind as he lay in bed that night, rendering him speechless. Derya had returned before Tarkan, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. He attempted to console her, but she only embraced him, seeking solace in his chest. A simmering fury stirred within him, though it dissipated the moment her marked hand made contact, calming his heart.

    He merely wrapped his arms around her, allowing her tears to flow freely. Whatever Tarkan had conveyed, Dimer vowed to uncover its meaning. He could only speculate as to the events that had transpired in his absence. Merely a week earlier, Tarkan had taken Derya''s hand and declared her his future queen. So what had changed in such a short span of time? Rising from his bed, Dimer realized sleep would elude him with such thoughts plaguing his mind, prompting him to venture out for a walk. Before departing, he stole a brief glance at Derya, curled up in slumber, her arms shielding her face. He rubbed his eyes wearily, shook off his reverie, and proceeded down the shoreline.

    It was a serene night, the kind that invited introspection. The moon hung majestically in the midst of the sky, usurping the attention that typically belonged to the sun. Its gentle glow cascaded upon the ocean, transforming its surface into a tapestry of liquid jewels. At times, Dimer found himself pondering the possibility of journeying to the moon, wondering what secrets it held within its celestial embrace. The sky stretched out endlessly, an infinite expanse that seemed beyond the grasp of mortal ambition. Yet, Zayn''s words echoed in his mind, urging him to exert his will. Perhaps that was his predicament. Gazing down at his blackened hand, Dimer contemplated the strength of his own resolve. He had believed it to be unwavering, but recent events suggested otherwise.

    He halted on the beach, scrutinizing his hand as he had done countless times before. How could he demonstrate the fortitude of his will? To himself, to any observer, to the higher powers, to the Lion-Man who had bestowed this mark upon him? Recollections surfaced of Tarkan and Aelar, each proving their determination through acts of sacrifice. They had shown that their will and ambition were resolute. As Dimer surveyed the radiant shoreline, his search for answers yielded an unexpected encounter. Amidst the gentle waves stood a figure, too tall to be a child yet possessing a countenance of profound kindness.

    "Who are you?" Dimer called out cautiously, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. The stranger''s curly white locks danced in the wind, casting an ethereal aura around them. Despite the mystique that surrounded this unfamiliar figure, Dimer felt a strange sense of enchantment rather than fear. As the stranger approached, Dimer''s instincts urged him to flee, yet an inexplicable calm washed over him. Instead of retreating, he found himself sinking to his knees in reverence. There was a palpable kindness emanating from the stranger, a warmth that dispelled any apprehension. Bare-chested, the stranger''s physique was revealed, displaying a pale yet muscular form akin to Dimer''s own. They stood before him, a testament to strength and grace intertwined.

    "Such kindness in thee, for what purpose? Surely, thee art among the blessed and the blessing." the man spoke, his words veiled in cryptic mystery. Dimer''s expression mirrored his confusion as the stranger tenderly cupped Dimer''s blackened hand in his own. "I see thee," the man whispered softly, his voice carrying an otherworldly weight. "Change will come, and thou wilt halt it. Repetition is madness, and ''tis that which folk refuse to grasp." With a gentle stroke, the man caressed Dimer''s head, radiating warmth that enveloped him, reminiscent of the comforting touch of Derya''s mark

    . "Who are you?" Dimer repeated, seeking clarity in the enigmatic encounter. Yet, the man remained silent, leaning forward to press a kiss upon Dimer''s forehead. A shiver coursed through Dimer''s body as he collapsed to the ground, the weight of the moment bearing down upon him.

    "Sacrifice," the man whispered softly, his words echoing in the vast expanse around them. "''Twas never for the sun to overtake the moon, but for it to do so." Struggling to comprehend the riddles spun before him, Dimer managed to voice his confusion,

    "Why are you speaking in riddles?" His gaze fell upon his hand, where the darkness had dissipated, replaced by a mysterious blackness at its center, encircled by a radiant disk of shifting light. In an instant, Dimer found himself suspended in the void, weightless amidst a sea of stars. Ahead, a colossal entity loomed, its presence overwhelming, filling him with a sense of awe and trepidation.

    "So ''tis thee that hath taken me as thy slave?" A voice echoed in Dimer''s mind, emanating from the ominous black hole before him. It felt like a tear in the fabric of reality, a void consuming all in its path. "I am glad ''tis thee, rightfully done in thy own right." the voice continued, carrying a tone that bordered on amusement. In an instant, Dimer found himself standing on solid ground, his feet sinking into ankle-deep blood. Horrified, he surveyed his surroundings, greeted by the ghastly sight of countless corpses piled around him.

    The air hung heavy with the stench of death, and despair gripped his heart. Ahead, three figures emerged from the grim tableau: a man adorned with mysterious black markings, a young girl, and another man with cascading blonde hair. Their presence seemed to stand in stark contrast to the surrounding carnage, yet they were not untouched by its weight. As a horde of approaching figures loomed in the distance, Dimer''s attention was drawn to the interaction unfolding before him. The man with the dark markings embraced the girl tenderly, their shared tears a testament to the anguish that enveloped them. In a gesture of affection, he kissed her on the lips, and to Dimer''s astonishment, he noticed horns sprouting from her head. She possessed an ethereal beauty, her black hair cascading in curls tinged with purple, her eyes bearing the weight of untold sorrow. It was a beauty that seemed to captivate the man, his love evident in every touch and gaze exchanged between them.

    As the girl and the man parted, the transformation began. Dimer watched in awe and horror as the horns atop her head grew.. With each passing moment, she seemed to shed her humanity, a metamorphosis unfolding before his eyes. Meanwhile, the encroaching horde of Nirans drew nearer, their ominous presence casting a shadow over the battlefield. Without hesitation, both men leaped into action, hurling themselves into the midst of the oncoming horde. Dimer could only watch in stunned disbelief as the Nirans fell, as if struck down by an unseen force. Above, the sky darkened, shrouded by the same menacing black hole that had appeared before.

    Overwhelmed by the sight of carnage and chaos, Dimer sank to his knees, the blood-soaked ground. He retched, emptying the contents of his stomach into the morass of blood, his senses reeling from the sheer horror of it all. Then the sky turned dark and hardly anything was seeable. In the sky dwelled the same black hole he had seen in that infintie expanse. Amidst the turmoil, the girl shared one last tender glance with the man, a look laden with both love and sorrow. Dimer felt an inexplicable surge of empathy for the man, a connection he couldn''t quite comprehend. Then, in a surreal twist of fate, the Nirans underwent a grotesque transformation, their forms contorting into macabre shapes. The return of blinding light heralded the disappearance of the black hole, revealing the sun once more, its harsh rays illuminating the macabre scene below.

    In place of the girl stood a small bird with horns, an Ashen Nightingale¡ªa bird that dwelled in old battlefields singing the songs of soldiers and knights long gone and unremembered. But the girl herself was nowhere to be found, her absence leaving a haunting void in the aftermath of battle. As Dimer surveyed the battlefield, he realized only two figures remained¡ªthe black marked man and the other blonde-haired man. Or so he thought. His gaze settled on the lone survivor amidst the sea of corpses, and a chill ran down his spine. Could the man see him? The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered and ominous.

    "Sacrifice," the man whispered softly, his voice laden with sorrow. "If only ours had been enough." With a desperate grip, he seized Dimer by his tunic, pulling him into the blood-soaked morass. Tears streamed down his face as he clung to Dimer, his anguish palpable. "''Twasn''t enough!" he cried out, his voice a tortured wail. "''Twasn''t." Though his grip threatened to crush him, Dimer felt a newfound strength coursing through him, anchoring him against the man''s despair.

    "Get up," a cold voice commanded from ahead. Dimer raised his gaze to behold a figure both familiar and alien¡ªa man bearing a striking resemblance to Tarkan, save for his longer hair and subtly altered features.

    "''Twasn''t enough!" the man spat, his tone dripping with contempt."Who will know to sacrifice so much again? What purpose did this serve in thy plan?" His words echoed with accusation, demanding answers. But the man before him remained serene, his gaze unwavering. Then, as if to deepen the mystery, Dimer noticed the same crescent moon mark adorning the man''s eye¡ªa mirror image of Tarkan''s own. Caught between confusion and awe, Dimer found himself speechless, his mind reeling with unanswered questions. Who was this man, and what role did he play in this unfolding drama? With a disconcerting smile, the man met Dimer''s gaze.

    "Thou shouldn''t even be here yet." the man declared, his voice carrying a weight of solemnity. "One day thou wilt come to understand, but that day is not now. So, I''ll see to thee later." With a sudden jolt, Dimer found himself back on the sandy shore, relief washing over him like a tidal wave. His heart pounded fiercely within his chest, grateful to be back amidst the familiar surroundings, surrounded by his friends and siblings.

    "Get up," a voice urged, and Dimer startled, his nerves still on edge. But then he realized it was Tarkan¡ªhis Tarkan, with his moon mark gleaming brightly, his eye akin to the boundless expanse of the night sky Dimer had just traversed. "Where were you?" Tarkan inquired, his tone laced with concern as he surveyed Dimer. But there was an uncanny resemblance in their voices, a similarity that sent a shiver down Dimer''s spine.

    "I... I don''t know," Dimer confessed, his words cautious. Tarkan regarded him with a wary gaze, as if probing for the truth. Then, his eyes fell upon Dimer''s form, and his voice softened.

    "Dimer," Tarkan murmured, his tone hushed. "You''re... covered in blood."

 Chapter 15|Tarkan|Niran, City of a Thousand Doors|

    Tarkan stared at Dimer, awaiting an answer to his observation. Dimer stood, legs trembling, droplets of blood flicking off with each quiver. Tarkan knelt, his fingers brushing against Dimer''s legs."You''re not bleeding, are you?" Tarkan asked, his touch tentative. Dimer shook his head, exhaling shakily.

    "I''m not. I was just... I-I don''t know." He stammered, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. Tarkan rose, then froze. Dimer¡¯s hand, once blackened, now bore a new mark. He took Dimer''s hand, examining it while Dimer watched him warily, as if Tarkan might tear it away.

    "It''s a black hole," Tarkan observed. "What does a black hole mean, exactly?" He looked into Dimer''s eyes, knowing there were too many questions but needing to start somewhere.

    "It was so strange," Dimer began, knitting his brows. "One moment, there was a man here, one with white, wavy hair. The next, I was in an almost infinite expanse of... night sky? I don''t know." Dimer clutched his head. Tarkan placed a hand on his brother¡¯s shoulder, leaning in to catch his gaze.

    "Did this white-haired man tell you who he was?" Tarkan asked. Dimer shook his head, regret etched on his face.

    "He only spoke in riddles, none of which made sense to me. It might as well have been a dream, but..." Dimer lifted his hand, gazing at the mark with amazement. "I got my mark, so there must be some truth in it, shouldn''t there?" He looked to Tarkan for answers, though Tarkan had none to give, only the pretense of certainty.

    "Did this black hole... speak to you? In the old common tongue?" Tarkan inquired. Dimer''s eyes widened in shock.

    "It did... but how did you know?" Dimer asked, astonished. Tarkan looked up at the night sky, his eyes finding the moon. In this vast world, certain things were universally known, like the moon¡ªunder his control. He was beyond. Derya had her sun mark, and now Dimer bore a black hole. Was it a metaphor, or another celestial object waiting to be discovered?

    "I experienced the same thing right before the mark appeared on my eye," Tarkan explained.

    "Not when you first received it?" Dimer asked, the tremor and anxiety in his voice now gone.

    "No. Only when it appeared on my eye." They both fell silent, the moment heavy with unspoken thoughts, until Tarkan spoke again. "It''s strange. The voice told me the mark would help me, placed it on my eye for that purpose, yet nothing has happened. I''m only... blind." Tarkan admitted, his voice tinged with frustration. Dimer''s brows shot up, and he leaned in to examine Tarkan¡¯s eye.

    "You''re blind? Why didn''t you tell Aelar or Ayrn? Surely, they would know something," Dimer said, but Tarkan doubted it. He believed patience was required, or perhaps he would turn to Derya once more.

    "I''d like to take after you a bit," Tarkan said, wrapping his tunic around himself and smiling. "You waited patiently for your mark, so who''s to say I cannot do the same?" At that moment, the sun began to peek over the ocean, painting the sky with the first hints of dawn. They both gazed at the horizon before Dimer looked down.

    ¡°There¡¯s so much we don¡¯t know about these marks and their true meanings,¡± Dimer murmured, his voice a gentle whisper in the stillness. Tarkan nodded, the weight of unspoken understanding passing between them.¡°What sort of power resides within these marks? Are they a blessing or a curse?¡± Dimer continued, his sigh barely audible. ¡°You saw how Derya turned invisble before our eyes, didn¡¯t you? That¡¯s no mere trick, and I¡¯m sure it¡¯s only the beginning.¡± Tarkan placed a reassuring arm around Dimer as they began their trek back to the camp.

    ¡°I have some theories,¡± Tarkan said thoughtfully, ¡°but I need to verify them. Once I do, perhaps we can transcend our ignorance and unlock our full potential.¡± Dimer¡¯s eyes gleamed with hope as he looked at his brother.

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he whispered, turning back to Tarkan. ¡°If anyone can unravel this mystery, it¡¯s you.¡± A warm smile spread across Tarkan¡¯s face, a rare moment of solace amidst the chaos.Suddenly, Dimer halted, and Tarkan followed his gaze. Boats dotted the shore¡ªat least twenty, large and imposing. Figures moved on the decks, but they were no ordinary people. Nirans had arrived

    .¡°They¡¯ve finally come,¡± Tarkan breathed, astonishment coloring his words. Aelar approached the shore, speaking in hushed tones. The Nirans began to disembark, their presence formidable. Tarkan scanned the area for familiar faces, but none of his own were to be found.Leading the Nirans was an elder woman, her face etched with lines and creases. As Dimer and Tarkan drew closer, they saw the depth of her experience mirrored in her eyes. To their astonishment, Aelar knelt before her, his men following suit. He took her hand with reverence, kissed it, and placed it upon his forehead, a gesture of profound respect.

    "Do you know who that is?" Dimer whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. Aelar had never mentioned an old woman or hinted that his people would come. Tarkan felt he should have known, but the truth had eluded him. Why? He couldn¡¯t say.Tarkan shook his head as they finally reached their camp. Aelar felt the prickling stares of these unfamiliar beings, their eyes assessing him. Some noticed his marked eye, recoiling as if he were a flaw in the fabric of their world. They pointed, and out of the corner of his eye, Tarkan saw Dimer''s hand move behind him.From their resting place, Derya rose, looking groggy and red-eyed, as if she''d been crying. Her hair was tangled, her face creased with sleep, yet she retained a haunting beauty.

    "These are humans who have sought our help," Aelar declared, extending his arm toward them. Ayrn watched with narrowed eyes, ready to act if they made a wrong move. Tarkan hesitated, unsure whether to step forward or remain where he was. But standing still would yield nothing. He moved beside Aelar with steady steps, Dimer quickly following.The old woman fixed Tarkan with cold blue eyes, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

    "What did we say about foreigners?" she asked Aelar, her voice like brittle leaves. More like a mother than anything else. Like a mother wanting to scorn her son but feeling too bad. Aelar smiled, gathering his flaming golden hair and tying it with a strand from his wrist.

    "There is nothing to fear from these men, mother, I assure you." He glanced at Tarkan with a knowing smile. So this woman was his mother, and therefore Rhea and Amelia''s sister. She looked different than he had imagined. "They saw us in need of aid, and we know their help will not go unpaid."

    "In the name of my family, the Altan name, I swear it to you and your people." Tarkan''s smile hinted at the storm he had just unleashed. The uproar was immediate, voices rising in anger and disdain. He still didn¡¯t know why they despised the name so much or what his ancestor had done, but it must have been grievous.

    "You''re supposed to be king, Aelar! You bear the name of your conqueror ancestor, yet you ally with the very name he sought to destroy!" an angry voice shouted from the crowd.

    "You rot our lands with your presence," another spat. More taunts and curses followed, the crowd¡¯s hostility palpable. Aelar sighed, casting an irritated glance at Tarkan. They would have to learn, sooner or later.

    "Whatever our ancestors have done, we have not," Dimer declared, his voice clear and resolute. Tarkan smiled, recognizing the strength in his brother. Dimer would make an excellent hand when the time came, already showing such initiative. "We are people, not beneath you. Respect us as we respect you. We may not know each other well, but we know you have hearts the same as ours." Dimer¡¯s words were delivered without a hint of hesitation, and even Tarkan felt a flicker of surprise. His words felt too force, too memorized and ready for his liking, he realized. He glanced around to find Derya, spotting her in the back, whispering with Rhea. When he turned back, he met the old woman¡¯s scornful gaze, but he chose to ignore it.Aelar stepped forward, raising his hands to quiet the crowd.

    "Our ancestors¡¯ sins are not ours to bear," he began, his voice carrying over the murmur of dissent. "We forge a new path here, one of unity and understanding. The Altans stand with us now, not against us. Judge them by their deeds, not by their name."The crowd¡¯s unrest simmered, but the old woman¡¯s eyes remained fixed on Tarkan, her judgment unspoken yet heavy.

    "My son will know what is right. But now let us dally no longer. I would like for the preparations for my son¡¯s ascension to begin," Lady Lyola declared with a commanding tone that brooked no argument. For a moment, uncertainty flickered among the Nirani crowd, torn between reverence for their regent and distrust towards the Altan presence. A woman emerged from the crowd, tall with a stern yet not unkind face, her gaze sharp as she addressed the Altans.

    "Lady Lyola, we acknowledge your faith in your son''s judgment, but can we so easily trust these people? Before our prince''s departure, we agreed on the fate of foreigners who dared trespass on our land: death. And yet here stand our greatest adversaries, the Altans, walking freely among us," she stated, her words cutting through the tension like a dagger. Her cold glance settled on Tarkan. "And he bears the Moon Eye. Must I say more?"

    "Must not any of you move unless you want missing limbs!" A cold voice sliced through the escalating tension. It was Bataar, flanked by their two knights (noticing Zeno''s absence), their swords drawn as they stared warily at the Altans. A Nirani woman clutching a child retreated in fear, while others edged forward, ready for confrontation.

    "Sheathe your swords in front of our friends, Bataar," Tarkan commanded firmly when Bataar hesitated. "Note that I said friends, not enemies. Sheathe your swords." With a low growl, Bataar reluctantly slid his sword back into its scabbard, and the two knights followed suit.

    "I assure you all, our friend Tarkan Altan, Prince of the Kingdom of Altan¡ªthe largest kingdom in all realms¡ªposes no threat to us. I have personally ensured his goodwill and placed my trust in him, just as he has in me," Aelar proclaimed, stepping forward with authority. With the crowd around them, Tarkan felt a shift in his posture, his voice steadier, more confident. Three of them here have been marked by the First Ones," Aelar continued, gesturing towards Tarkan and Dimer. "Tarkan bears the mark of the moon, and his brother Dimer will soon receive one as well." Tarkan glanced at Dimer, wondering if he would reveal his mark, but his brother remained still. Aelar then turned to Derya, presenting her to the crowd. Tarkan felt an uncomfortable prickling in his stomach as all eyes turned to her, the Niranis'' attention fixed upon her. "And she bears the mark of the sun. I have taught these three how to harness their powers. That is how you know I trust them," Aelar declared, his voice carrying authority and conviction.

    "You make it sound as if we place too much trust in them," Ayrn muttered, his gaze averted from Aelar. Lady Lyola, observed them with a softer but no less stern expression, her thoughts unreadable in the moment.

    "Well then, as I said," Lady Lyora spoke with authority, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "Prepare for my son¡¯s ascension. Bring out the Chest of Right." Two young Nirani men immediately dashed back to the ship at her command, while the others cleared a path with solemn respect. Tarkan marveled at their numbers¡ªover two hundred, yet he couldn''t gauge their true strength.Aelar''s smile reassured Tarkan, and his gaze shifted to Zayn, who stepped forward beside him.

    "Didn''t expect it to be so soon, did you?" Aelar shook his head, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

    "You and your siblings will be the first humans to witness a king''s ascension on our ancestral lands in three millennia," Zayn added.

    "Whose fault is that?" Ayrn''s bitterness cut through, his gaze locked with Zayn''s in silent challenge. The two Nirani men returned, carrying one of the largest chests Tarkan had ever seen. The soft murmur of the crowd hushed as they placed it before Lady Lyora.Tarkan sensed his own people and Derya approaching from behind. Rhea joined Aelar, her eyes shimmering with pride and love as she gripped his hand tightly. Tarkan felt a touch on his hand¡ªit was Derya''s smooth, beautiful hand, holding his with a gentle strength that made him hesitant to let go. He drew her closer until her shoulder touched his own.

    Lady Lyora approached the chest, briefly pausing to glance at Tarkan. Was there hesitation in her eyes? No, it seemed more like a passing thought that momentarily distracted her. With deliberate care, she opened the chest, revealing objects that were entirely unfamiliar to Tarkan.

    "All must step away from the King, except Rhea, his betrothed," Lady Lyora declared, her voice carrying authority. The crowd shifted back obediently, creating a respectful distance. Tarkan felt an urge to remain where he stood, rooted to the spot by something he couldn''t quite name. Unexpectedly, Ayrn stepped forward and pushed Tarkan aside, surprising both him and Derya. Before either could react, Aelar intervened, placing a hand on Ayrn''s arm to stop him.

    "I want them to witness this," Aelar stated firmly. Ayrn glared at him, clearly furious, but reluctantly obeyed, stepping back into the crowd.

    Lady Lyora regarded him with that familiar look, but this time, Tarkan chose to ignore it. She approached the chest, each step commanding silence from the gathered Nirani. From within, she withdrew a sword¡ªa brutish, amalgamated weapon that appeared forged from smaller swords, its hilt adorned with an amber-colored piece of cloth waving in the wind as she planted it firmly into the ground.Delving back into the chest, Lady Lyora retrieved an ornate straight sword, its bronze and amber hues accentuated by gemstones running along its length. The hilt ended in a half crescent, its significance shrouded in mystery. Placed beside the first sword, it shimmered with a contrasting beauty.Next, she withdrew two scrolls and a long black cloth that seemed to radiate its own faint glow. The scrolls bore seals of fine wax, reminiscent of those used in Esen''s religious texts, complete with wooden sticks for handling. Placing them beside the swords, Lady Lyora reached once more into the chest with both hands.This time, she extracted two crowns. One was crafted from an unfamiliar steel that glowed and sparkled with enigmatic gems, emitting a reddish hue that seemed otherworldly. Adorned with small dragon wings, it fueled Tarkan''s theories. The other crown, simpler yet exuding an aura that felt beyond mortal reach, emanated a primordial red fire, compelling Tarkan to look away despite his fascination. Its only decoration was a straight line ascending and descending.As Lady Lyora arranged these artifacts before them, Tarkan sensed the weight of history and destiny converging in this moment¡ªa king''s ascension, a union of worlds, and the unfolding of mysteries that bound them all.

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    "I cannot allow this to go any further," another voice interjected. A man with impeccably groomed hair and a cleanly shaven face strode forward, clad in extravagant robes that hinted at his significance.

    "What objections do you have, Tarin?" Lady Lyorel inquired, her tone betraying a hint of challenge. Tarin''s gaze shifted to Aelar, his expression contorted with scorn.

    "He disregards our traditions for an Altan man, as we have already voiced our discontent. And now, at this sacred moment, he allows him to stand beside him? How many millennia have passed since we were driven from our ancestral lands, only to cling to our traditions?" Tarin''s words dripped with bitterness and resentment.Aelar stepped forward, nearly causing Rhea to stumble in his wake. His demeanor was more one of annoyance and confusion than anger.

    "So what if I''ve broken some traditions? Our scriptures speak of a Nirani prince destined to reclaim our homeland and be rightfully crowned king of his people. Do you doubt the teachings of our scriptures?" Aelar posed the question with a raised fist, not threateningly, but with conviction in his beliefs.

    "I cannot support a king who would forsake our identity, traditions, and sacred rituals for the sake of an Altan boy," Tarin declared, stepping back, as if realizing he didn''t want to provoke further confrontation. "When you extend your hand to a murderer, their blood stains your hands as well." With that final rebuke, he turned and retreated back onto the boat. Uncertainty rippled through the onlookers, while Aelar watched Tarin depart, his expression inscrutable.

    "And where would you go?" Zayn called out to Tarin, but Tarin merely snorted, refusing to acknowledge Zayn''s question as he walked away.

    "I will roam the seas for as long as it takes, leaving this duty for my grandsons perhaps," Tarin retorted defiantly. His words sparked a murmur among the crowd, some beginning to follow him. Aelar, however, swiftly intervened, recognizing the gravity of the moment and the need to keep his people united, especially given their dwindling numbers.

    "The prophecy speaks of a prince," Aelar countered, a smirk playing on his lips. "Where would you find another?" Tarin appeared unfazed, maintaining his composure.

    "That is precisely why I ask for Zayn to join me," Tarin continued, his gaze shifting to Zayn. "He is intelligent and must see the folly in this. Though he may be a bastard, the blood of Aelar the Conqueror runs stronger in him than in me." Aelar''s expression froze, his gaze slowly turning towards Zayn. All eyes, including Tarkan''s, fixated on him, waiting for his response. Tarkan couldn''t believe Zayn would entertain such a notion, but Zayn simply shook his head dismissively.

    "I refuse. My place is by my brother''s side when he ascends to the throne," Zayn declared firmly. Aelar turned back to Tarin, a self-assured gleam in his eyes. Tarin and the few Niranis who had followed him seemed to falter, doubt creeping into their resolve. Could they truly defy the prophecy without a prince?

    "Then I shall forge my own bloodline, a new hierarchy," Tarin declared defiantly. His words incited roars of offense and fury from the crowd, and in that moment, Tarkan realized Aelar needed to do nothing more. Tarin had sealed his own fate; no one would rally to his cause now.

    "Accuse him of treason," Aelar commanded coldly. Without hesitation, Nirani men swiftly moved to apprehend Tarin. Tarkan glanced at Dimer and saw mirrored in his brother''s eyes the same satisfaction reflected in Aelar''s.

    "Why am I being seized for speaking the truth?" Tarin protested loudly. His sharp gaze swept across the crowd until it settled on Tarkan. "You allow this wretched child to walk among us, and he will bring doom upon us all!" Tarin''s words were cut short as a Nirani man delivered a swift punch to his jaw. Beside him, Tarkan felt Derya flinch, and Dimer offered her a reassuring touch. Tarkan couldn''t help but admire the depth of the Nirani''s faith. Their unwavering belief in their scriptures and the prophesied prince was remarkable, a loyalty rarely seen among humans. Tarkan wished he could share in their certainty.

    "Now take him away and let the ceremony commence!" Lady Lyorel announced briskly, her urgency palpable. She gestured towards where Aelar had originally stood with Rhea, and he returned there, making sure to take her arm in his. Tarkan watched with growing excitement as Lady Lyorel lifted up the two crowns and held them before Aelar. He couldn''t help but imagine himself in Aelar''s place one day, receiving a crown from someone¡ªanyone, really, but not his own mother; that was now impossible."Aelar, son to none, I ask you the question passed down since the time of Aelar the First. Are you prepared?" Lady Lyorel''s voice carried weight, tinged with both tradition and expectation. Aelar nodded resolutely, as if his decision had been made long ago. A faint smile flickered at the corners of Lady Lyorel''s mouth.

    "I am prepared, and have been since birth, just as the prophecy foretold," Aelar affirmed. Yet as he spoke, it seemed the smile on his mother''s face faltered briefly, almost imperceptibly. Tarkan glanced at Dimer, wondering if he had noticed the same subtle shift, but Dimer was wholly focused on the unfolding ceremony.

    "I saw it too," Derya whispered softly into Tarkan''s ear. He fought the urge to startle away from her. Could she read his thoughts? He hoped not, and rubbed his head, unsettled by the notion.

    "Then I tell you, Aelar, son to none," Lady Lyorel began, her voice carrying the weight of ancestral lore. "Once, our ancestor Aelar the Conqueror¡ªbefore he earned his namesake¡ªwas but a king who bore the Crown of Retribution, named for his conquests. Then, in a dream bestowed by our God Kaelar the Shatterer, he was commanded to conquer, and conquer he did. During that time, he wore the Crown of Realms, donning the Crown of Retribution only after his conquests were complete." She paused, allowing the significance of the story to settle among those gathered. With a deliberate gesture, she weighed the crowns in her hands before continuing. "For this reason, I ask you, Aelar: What kind of king will you be? A conqueror, or a ruler in the tradition of those who came before you?" The question lingered, charged with meaning, though Tarkan found himself grappling with unfamiliar titles. The Crown of Realms and the Crown of Retribution were mysteries to him, absent from any history books he had encountered. If this Aelar was such a formidable conqueror, why were his exploits not recorded in conventional histories, but only in the oral traditions of his people?

    Shifting his attention back to Aelar, Tarkan''s thoughts cleared. It was evident what choice Aelar would make¡ªhis fiery-eyed determination, the clenched fist, and his mane of golden-red hair billowing in the brisk wind painted a portrait of kingship, though not yet fully realized. When Aelar glanced at him, their eyes met briefly, but Tarkan held his emotions close, wary of betraying any hint to Aelar. Aelar then turned to his mother, his gaze flickering between the crowns before him. This decision, if guided by prophecy, would shape the course of history. Why then, Tarkan wondered, did Aelar appear so composed?With a touch of uncertainty, Aelar tentatively reached for the Crown of Retribution. Murmurs of shock rippled through the crowd, intensifying as Aelar looked up, his eyes resolute and fixed.

    Tarkan could scarcely believe his ears as Aelar pronounced, "I choose the Crown of Retribution, to lead our people through times as prosperous as those of Aelar the Conqueror." The weight of Aelar''s decision hung heavy in the air, stirring murmurs of dissent from the crowd.

    "What of our dreams and hopes?" cried an unidentified voice from the crowd. The sentiment seemed to echo through many, though Aelar remained steadfast in his choice. Tarkan prayed silently that he had not influenced this ill-conceived decision, yet it seemed inevitable that the Nirani people would attribute it to him, regardless of his true role.

    "He has spent too long in the company of these humans," shouted one man.

    "He has lost his senses. Such audacity cannot be tolerated," yelled a woman.

    "Aelar already has few supporters, and now he chooses to alienate so many," Dimer whispered to Tarkan, his voice laden with concern, ensuring Aelar could not overhear.

    "He wishes to guide the Niranis through prosperous years, but how can he achieve that without conquest, especially in such vulnerable times?" Tarkan mused, finding agreement with Dimer''s observation. "Does he expect us to assist them in this endeavor?"

    "Well, aren''t we?" Dimer countered. Tarkan regarded Dimer thoughtfully, letting the question linger in his mind

    ."The decision is made, and the crown is his to choose," announced Lady Lyora. The Nirani people held her in high regard, evident in Aelar''s act of kneeling and kissing her hand¡ªan uncommon sight in Turukhan or any land Tarkan knew. Lady Lyora clutched the remaining crown tightly, and in an instant, it vanished from her grasp. Tarkan caught his breath as Aelar knelt, his eyes closed in solemnity. With a reverent gesture, Lady Lyora placed the crown upon Aelar''s head, and for a moment, silence enveloped the gathering. Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind threatened to unsteady Tarkan and others, yet they stood firm. Behind Aelar, a throne materialized, seemingly crafted from the same mysterious substance. Etched upon it were inscriptions Tarkan could not decipher, and at its pinnacle gleamed a gemstone, possibly amber¡ªa peculiar choice, given its relative commonality.

    "So much in this world, and we knew so little of it," Derya muttered, her tone tinged with bitterness, surprising Tarkan.

    "We learn of it now, and for good reason," Tarkan reassured her. "When we know everything, no one can ever keep a secret from us again."

    "You speak of ''everything'' as if it were a small and insignificant thing," Dimer remarked, observing Aelar as he stood up, placing a hand on his forehead. The fiery intensity of Aelar''s red eyes had faded into a paler version of their former brilliance.

    "Well, I don¡¯t know if there''s more to learn than what I know now," Tarkan replied, smiling at Dimer. "So, this is my everything."

    "Aelar, King of the Nirans and all descendants of the ancestor Vaellyrn!" Lady Lyora announced, raising her hand to silence any premature cheers from the crowd. "At the next full moon, all must gather here and swear their loyalties and oaths to King Aelar. Those who refuse will be exiled and banished from this island," she declared, her gaze sweeping over the assembled crowd before she picked up two scrolls lying near the sword.Unfurling the scrolls despite the sealing wax that bound them, Lady Lyora revealed mysterious languages and enigmatic markings. One scroll bore a symbol resembling a lightning bolt, while the other displayed an eye, though drawn in an unfamiliar manner, especially the pupil.

    "King Aelar, I now bestow upon you the markings of your ancestors. The Great Lightning shall be yours to command, once again under a Nirani ruler. Lay your right hand upon this mark," Lady Lyora declared, holding out the scroll adorned with the lightning symbol.

    "Is this marking similar to ours?" Dimer inquired, craning his neck for a clearer view. Aelar placed his hand on the scroll, and suddenly, the sky cracked with thunder and lightning, though moments earlier, it had been clear. Tarkan noted the lightning was red, a startling sight that even Lady Lyora seemed taken aback by, raising her hand instinctively.

    "That is the¡ª" The woman began, but Lady Lyora''s stern stare silenced her immediately.

    "Do you now think you know everything?" Dimer asked, but Tarkan was distracted, wondering what the woman had been about to say. He had never witnessed such red lightning, and the thunder made it harder to focus. Lady Lyora reached for the grotesque, malformed sword and handed it to Aelar. As Aelar grasped it, lightning danced around the blade, transforming the once hideous metal into a stunning blend of red and gold, reminiscent of his own fiery hair. The sword seemed almost translucent, adorned with unfamiliar inscriptions. Its ornate hilt gleamed with golden accents, featuring a large, symmetrical crossguard and a secondary one halfway down the blade''s length. The sword, once reviled, now appeared among the most beautiful Tarkan had ever laid eyes upon.

    "What a blade," Dimer exclaimed, his voice tinged with awe. Derya''s gaze darted between the sword and the red lightning in the sky, clearly unsure which was more fascinating.

    "I think I remember something about red lightning, but it was just in legends," Derya mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully

    ."Then it probably wasn¡¯t true," Tarkan replied with a shrug, causing Derya to frown at him.

    "Don¡¯t dismiss it so easily; all myths are based on some truths," Derya insisted, but Tarkan just snorted dismissively.

    "That¡¯s something old people like our nannies used to say to scare us with their stories when we were young," Tarkan retorted. Derya looked away, clearly irritated.

    "Be quiet, something else is happening," Dimer interjected, placing a hand on Tarkan¡¯s shoulder. Tarkan shivered involuntarily at the contact and pulled away slightly.

    "Ayrn, step forward next to your king," Lady Lyora commanded, motioning toward the space beside Aelar where Rhea did not stand. Ayrn obeyed, and Tarkan noticed the absence of the last scroll, leaving only one."Every king has a shadow, Ayrn," Lady Lyora continued solemnly. "Someone chosen from birth to serve the king with unwavering loyalty, like a hound to his master." A flicker of emotion crossed Ayrn''s face, but he remained rigidly by Aelar''s side.

    "What a dreadful pick," Tarkan muttered quietly to himself, but he feared his words were too loud when a Nirani man glared at him with hostility.

    ¡°Do you vow to protect your king and obey him to the most of your capabilities Ayrn son to None?¡± Ayrn blinked at her as if swallowing the words. He stared at the mark his icy blue eyes glistening and he looked away before nodding.

    ¡°I do.¡± He said yet Tarkan could¡¯ve sworn he hadn¡¯t. Not the way he had. Lady Lyora seemed to notice but Aelar hadn¡¯t still staring at his mark amazed. By now the clouds above had gone and disappeared leaving no trace that they had ever been there. Rhea was holding his arm and whispering something into his ears which could¡¯ve been anything.

    ¡°Then bring forth your right hand and lay it upon this scroll.¡± She said. So Ayrn did. In that brief moment when he then took it off and the scroll disappeared as did the markings on it Ayrn collapsed onto the floor with a shout clutching his eyes. He covered them as he looked back up shaking his head around quickly. Lady Lyora reached into her robe to pull out the same uninteresting blindfold to hold it out to Ayrn but even before she had Ayrn¡¯s hadn was there taking it from her. Still keeping his eyes shut he wrapped it around his head and stood up again seeming to shake a little.

    "May you serve your king well," Lady Lyora acknowledged solemnly as she retrieved the sword she had planted next to the deformed one earlier. It was a surprisingly beautiful weapon, crafted from bronze-colored amber (?) and fashioned into a straight sword with elaborate ornamentation. The blade gleamed with such polish that Tarkan could see his own reflection in it from where he stood. Ayrn reached for the sword before Lady Lyora could offer it, and she smiled warmly. "Under this High Moon, we will gather to pledge our loyalty to our King," Lady Lyora declared, her voice carrying across the silent crowd of Niranis who now gazed at their new ruler. Tarkan couldn''t discern their thoughts; unfamiliar with their prophecies and customs, he could only imagine there was skepticism among them. The seed of doubt had been sown, and now its consequences would unfold.

 Chapter 16|Dimer|Niran, City of a Thousand Doors|

    Their customs had seemed peculiar to Dimer, yet his curiosity only deepened. A week had passed since Aelar''s crowning, and with each day, Dimer learned more about these people. The most intriguing ritual was when Ayrn and Aelar braided their hair, then severed the plaits, tying them to each other¡¯s braids.

    ¡°It will grow from his braid, signifying our connection, like that of a ruler and his sword,¡± Aelar explained to Tarkan.

    ¡°Would it truly grow?¡± Derya questioned, her doubt evident as she examined their braids. Dimer shared her skepticism but trusted the ritual''s significance.Wandering through the village, now newly formed, Dimer was captivated. In just a week, they had built with astonishing speed, as if the stone and wood had sprung from their hands. The materials seemed endless, a mystery Dimer couldn¡¯t unravel. The foreign architecture was stunning, and they had already begun constructing a castle around the throne near the beach.

    When he first observed the construction, a girl perhaps a year older approached him, asking if he wanted to help. Dimer stared at her, searching for Tarkan but finding no sign of him. Uncertain of what they needed from him, he felt a wave of foolishness. He had watched them work for days, never offering assistance or feeling too awkward to ask. They hadn¡¯t been fond of him until Zayn revealed he was adopted. The shift in their behavior towards him was stark compared to their treatment of others. Dimer understood that regardless of his words, they would continue to despise the Altans for ancient crimes committed by their ancestors.Realizing he had been staring at the girl with his mouth slightly open, he quickly shut it, feeling foolish.

    He cleared his throat, but it came out choked, making him seem overly formal. He placed his hand behind him. The girl smiled, causing his stomach to tighten. Glancing at her confident posture, he wished he could disappear. His shoulders hunched, and he averted his gaze, focusing on the ground instead of meeting her eyes. She mentioned needing help with identifying fruits and growing food for farming, and Dimer agreed to show her. The problem was, he knew nothing about the plants. Rhea and Derya had the knowledge, but he wasn¡¯t about to fetch either of them, knowing how busy they already were.

    They ventured into the forest together, and as they did, the girl let out a sigh of relief.

    ¡°It''s quite refreshing in here, isn¡¯t it?¡± she remarked, glancing back at Dimer. He froze momentarily, then nodded in agreement.

    ¡°Yes, it really is,¡± he muttered. Her smile encouraged him.They walked in silence for a while until she stopped abruptly, turning to him with an amused expression.

    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be leading the way, since you were going to show me where the plants grow?¡± she teased gently. Dimer felt like slapping his hand across his face in embarrassment, but he restrained himself, not wanting to reinforce any misconceptions about his intellect.

    ¡°Oh, yes, let me do that now,¡± he replied, chuckling awkwardly as he hurried to take the lead. He began to navigate blindly through the paths, deeper into the jungle.

    ¡°Are you sure this is the right path?¡± she asked dubiously.

    ¡°Of course it is,¡± Dimer asserted, feeling his ears burn with embarrassment.

    ¡°Well, I suppose you must know better than me,¡± she conceded with a shrug. ¡°My name is Malise, by the way.¡±

    ¡°And mine is Dimer,¡± he responded, feeling a strange sense of ease settle over him as he said it.

    ¡°I know,¡± she replied, smiling again. Dimer stopped, realizing he recognized some plants from his time helping Derya wash them, though he couldn''t recall their names. He knew they were edible, however.

    ``These are plants we can eat,¡± he informed her, pointing at them. She crouched down, examining the plants with intense scrutiny that made Dimer nervous about whether he had chosen correctly. She plucked one from the ground and nibbled on it gently before turning to Dimer with a smile.

    ¡°Quite pleasant, this one,¡± she remarked, holding out the plant towards him. Dimer hesitantly took it from her, nibbling off a piece, feeling a flush of warmth beneath his clothes. With a small pin from her dress, she affixed it to one of the plants before straightening up, her dress swirling.¡°Onto the ne¡ª¡± Her words were cut off by a thunderous roar that shook the trees, charging towards them. It was a bear, larger than any Dimer had ever seen. In an instant, it swiped at Malise, sending her crashing to the ground with a cry. Dimer instinctively positioned himself between her and the bear, which roared menacingly, making him tremble. There had been no signs of bears in this forest¡ªno tracks, no droppings¡ªuntil now. Why would it appear at this moment?

    Glancing back at Malise, Dimer felt a surge of emotions he hadn¡¯t felt in years. Her face was mangled, bloodied beyond recognition as she tentatively touched it, hands shaking. The bear reared up, its roar thundering, and swiped a paw towards Dimer. But within him, something stirred, a power he had only glimpsed in visions¡ªa mark on his hand pulsed with energy until it throbbed, creating a small black hole in front of him, devouring everything in its path, including the bear. As suddenly as it appeared, it vanished, leaving behind only fragments of the bear''s head, a chilling testament to what had transpired. Turning back to Malise, Dimer dropped to his knees, gently holding her shoulders.

    "I can¡¯t see," she choked out. Dimer¡¯s hands trembled as he realized she would never regain her sight. Her eyes had been gouged out by the bear, leaving bloody cavities where they once were. Deep, ragged claw marks marred the rest of her face, from which blood flowed freely. Knowing he couldn¡¯t afford to freeze in place, Dimer gently lifted her, hearing a faint whimper escape her lips. He knew he had to act quickly for her sake.Running as swiftly as he could without jostling her, Dimer headed towards the Nirani village.

    ¡°The wind stings,¡± she muttered, her voice strained and feeble. Her torn lips caused Dimer to bite his own, blinking rapidly against the tears threatening to spill. Approaching the village within the forest, Dimer encountered Nirani men and women who questioned him, but he could offer no explanation, nor could he afford to pause. They soon realized the urgency as they saw her condition, and they joined him in haste.Entering the village, Dimer found a scene that, in that moment, seemed trivial and infuriatingly petty. Nirani knights and burly men clashed, but upon seeing Dimer collapse to his knees with the injured girl, they immediately ceased their conflict, recognizing the gravity of the situation.

    ¡°What happened to her?¡± demanded one of the villagers, getting in Dimer''s face. They took Malise from his arms, and Dimer hesitated, reluctant to let her go. He didn¡¯t trust anyone else to tend to her wounds, but he knew he lacked the skill to help her.

    ¡°Dimer, are you hurt?¡± Tarkan''s voice broke through his numbness as he felt Tarkan''s hands on his shoulders. Dimer looked down, realizing he was covered in Malise¡¯s blood. He nodded silently, feeling overwhelmed.

    ¡°There was a bear,¡± he choked out in response to Tarkan¡¯s unasked question.

    ¡°And you just watched as she was mauled?¡± came an angry accusation, the voice blending with others around him. Ayrn¡¯s voice might have been among them, but all sounds seemed distant and indistinct as Dimer focused on Malise. He couldn¡¯t tell if she still breathed, but a faint rise and fall of her chest stirred a flicker of hope within him. She mustn¡¯t die. Not now. Not like this. For his sake, she couldn¡¯t. Otherwise, Dimer would never forgive himself.

    ¡°Let¡¯s get you out of here,¡± a voice said, and Dimer looked up to see Derya standing over him.

    ¡°No, stay here,¡± Tarkan commanded, taking Derya¡¯s hand. Their eyes met, and Tarkan leaned in to whisper something to her, his words lost to Dimer in the chaos. Derya¡¯s expression shifted from shock to understanding, nodding slowly as Tarkan lifted Dimer up from the ground.

    ¡°She¡¯ll live,¡± Tarkan assured him, his voice steady and confident. ¡°No matter the scars or pain, she¡¯ll survive, and she¡¯ll have you to thank.¡± Dimer¡¯s voice was hoarse as he replied,

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    ¡°Would she even want to thank a man she can¡¯t speak or see?¡±

    ¡°All life craves life, Dimer,¡± Tarkan replied, his tone unwavering. ¡°She¡¯s kind and loving. She¡¯ll find a way to thank you. I promise.¡± Dimer looked up at his brother, seeing certainty etched into every line of Tarkan¡¯s face.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go back to our old camp,¡± Tarkan suggested, taking hold of Dimer¡¯s arm. ¡°I need to tell you something.¡± Dimer couldn¡¯t fathom Tarkan¡¯s calmness in such a dire moment, nor could he understand his apparent detachment. Following silently, they made their way back to the deserted camp. Zeno, lying against a tree with his sword nearby, cracked an eye open as they approached.

    ¡°What are you two doing here?¡± he muttered, clearly sleepy.

    ¡°Enjoying the sun, are you?¡± Tarkan remarked with a smile. Zeno shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips as well.

    ¡°I¡¯ll take it in while I can. There aren¡¯t many spots to sun oneself in Turukhan, you know,¡± Zeno remarked lazily. Dimer paused, withdrawing his hand from Tarkan''s grip

    .¡°While you can?¡± Dimer repeated, casting a skeptical glance between Zeno and Tarkan, narrowing his eyes. Tarkan scratched the back of his head awkwardly, pulling his mantle tighter around himself.

    ¡°That¡¯s actually what I was going to tell you,¡± Tarkan admitted, avoiding Dimer¡¯s gaze and stealing quick glances as if ashamed. ¡°I¡¯ve planned for us to leave in a week¡¯s time. I¡¯ve already informed Zeno and Aelar, but I wanted to tell you myself.¡±Anger surged within Dimer, feeling like a fire about to burst its confines.

    ¡°You thought you would tell me?¡± Dimer stepped forward, his voice tightening with frustration. Tarkan¡¯s face turned red, but there was a sheepish smile playing on his lips.¡°What makes you think you can just decide such a thing?¡± Dimer started, catching himself before saying more, but the look on Tarkan¡¯s face suggested he understood the unspoken accusation anyway.

    ¡°I feel it¡¯s time for us to return home now. Our tasks here are completed, even if we weren¡¯t appointed as wardens. They can¡¯t demand more from us since it was never specified. Our relationship with the Nirans is strong enough; there¡¯s no need for us here anymore,¡± Tarkan declared. Dimer turning away from Tarkan began to pace anxiously, hands covering his face. How could he leave now? He didn¡¯t want to, not while she lay injured... It was strange¡ªhe had known her for less than half an hour, yet he felt a connection so profound, unlike anything he had ever experienced.¡°Don¡¯t dwell on her,¡± Tarkan advised, prompting Dimer to shoot him a sharp glance. Could he read his thoughts? Surely not. What did that have to do with the situation at hand?

    ¡°What if, when I return, they insist I marry someone else?¡± Dimer asked, seeking guidance from Tarkan once more.

    ¡°By the gods, they couldn¡¯t care less about arranging a match for you,¡± Tarkan chuckled. ¡°Unless a suitor¡ªor you¡ªstep forward, of course,¡± he added wryly. Dimer wasn¡¯t sure whether to be offended, and Zeno¡¯s condescending smirk didn¡¯t help.

    ¡°Well, if you¡¯re so certain,¡± Dimer muttered, scratching his chin, feeling a bit foolish for getting worked up. ¡°When will you tell Derya we¡¯re leaving?¡±

    ¡°When she¡¯s finished,¡± Tarkan replied cryptically, smiling knowingly. Just then, Derya emerged from the underbrush. Dimer turned to her with surprise, half-expecting someone else to follow, but there was no one. She looked at him awkwardly before whispering something to Tarkan, who nodded in response.

    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Dimer asked, feeling his cheeks flush. Zeno snorted and laughed, pointing at Dimer as if finding his confusion amusing.

    ¡°I think you should head back to their village,¡± Tarkan suggested with a glint in his eye. ¡°There¡¯s someone waiting for you there.¡± Dimer stared at Tarkan, unable to fully grasp his meaning, yet his feet were already moving, backing into the forest. He turned and sprinted as fast as he could, ignoring obstacles in his path. His heart ached with a longing that surpassed any ordinary feeling¡ªit was a fire that couldn¡¯t be extinguished easily.Arriving at the village, Dimer found the Nirani people gathered around someone, tensions from earlier seeming to have dissipated. The human aggressors and their Nirani counterparts had likely been dealt with by their respective leaders.

    ¡°It¡¯s him,¡± someone whispered, and all eyes turned towards Dimer, causing a hush to fall over the crowd.

    ¡°Unlucky,¡± another Nirani murmured quietly. ¡°Better than nothing, though,¡± she added, receiving a playful punch from her companion. They reminded him of... As people moved aside, he saw her clearly. It was Malise, as beautiful as when he had first seen her. But her face¡ªher face was miraculously unmarred, better than he could have hoped.Approaching her tentatively, Dimer met her gaze, feeling a rush of relief flood through him as if nothing had ever happened.

    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry,¡± he managed to choke out, collapsing to his knees beside her, unaware of his posture.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± she reassured him with a smile that eased the turmoil within him.¡°Next time,¡± she added cryptically. Dimer didn¡¯t fully grasp her words, but in that moment, he didn¡¯t mind.

    ¡°Did Derya do this?¡± Aelar¡¯s voice cut through the intimate moment between Dimer and Malise.

    ¡°Yes, the Altan girl did it, my King,¡± a Nirani man affirmed, eyeing Dimer suspiciously. Aelar adjusted his crooked crown as he bent down to inspect Malise. Dimer glanced around, searching for Ayrn among the Nirani, though he was nowhere to be seen, likely nearby nonetheless.

    ¡°What happened to you?¡± Aelar inquired softly, gently brushing his fingers over Malise''s face. She blinked in surprise but responded calmly, her voice steady.

    ¡°There was a bear, it came out of nowhere and scratched my face,¡± she explained, smiling at Dimer, who blushed and looked away. ¡°Dimer brought me back here just in time, and his sister saved me,¡± she added, her voice brightening.Aelar straightened up, pulling Dimer to his feet with him.

    ¡°You have my gratitude,¡± he said formally, almost as if they hadn¡¯t been friends just a month before. Dimer accepted it silently; Aelar was now a king, not merely their friend, and he would have to adjust to this new dynamic. Perhaps he was still Tarkan¡¯s friend, but not theirs anymore.

    ¡°Of course,¡± Dimer replied, bowing his head slightly and matching Aelar¡¯s formal tone. Aelar hesitated briefly before asking, lowering his voice as if to keep their conversation private.

    ¡°Was it the power of the mark that helped heal her to this extent?¡± he queried, his voice low. ¡°They said it was quite...¡± Aelar trailed off, and Dimer understood whom he was trying to avoid implicating.

    ¡°I believe it was the mark,¡± Dimer affirmed. ¡°If you¡¯re asking whether we possess some miraculous medicine, unfortunately, we do not.¡±Aelar nodded thoughtfully, pursing his lips.

    ¡°That¡¯s good to know,¡± he chuckled awkwardly. ¡°Still learning from what we¡¯ve taught you three, aren¡¯t you?¡± he remarked with a hint of humor. Dimer attempted a smile but couldn¡¯t manage it. Aelar cleared his throat and turned to address his people.¡°Take Malise to her home and let her rest. I¡¯m sure that¡¯s what she needs now,¡± he instructed, addressing the gathered Nirani. ¡°We¡¯ll need some help to get her there, unless she can manage on her own,¡± he added, catching himself and glancing down at Malise with concern.

    ¡°Absolutely not,¡± Dimer blurted out, his cheeks flushing crimson as he realized how foolish he must appear. The Nirani people chuckled softly, some suppressing their laughter with quivering lips. He couldn¡¯t bring himself to glance at Malise; he had embarrassed himself and likely her too.

    ¡°Then Dimer can bring her back to her house,¡± Aelar declared, a hint of amusement in his voice. He sighed wearily. ¡°Kaelar forbid we have no doctors,¡± he muttered, rubbing his forehead, before walking away. As he did, his crown slipped from his head and landed on the ground. A hush fell over the onlookers as Aelar seemed oblivious until he reached up, realized it was missing, and retrieved it, brushing off the sand. With regal composure, he placed it back on his head and continued on his way, ignoring the stares.Dimer knelt down again beside Malise, meeting her eyes sheepishly.

    ¡°Can I¡­¡± he started, feeling his cheeks burn hotter.She giggled softly, covering her mouth with a hand.

    ¡°You¡¯ve already carried me once, I suppose it makes no difference now,¡± she teased gently.Dimer could only nod, feeling like a furnace inside. Carefully, he lifted her, supporting her back and legs effortlessly.

    ¡°You¡¯re quite strong,¡± she remarked, her tone appreciative.

    ¡°Oh, uh, yeah,¡± Dimer stammered, glancing around. ¡°Where¡¯s your house?¡± he asked, eager to divert attention from his embarrassment.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have a proper house yet,¡± Malise replied, pointing towards the houses under construction. ¡°Mine is the little makeshift one at the end.¡± Dimer spotted it and felt a pang of disappointment; he had hoped she would live somewhere better.

    ¡°When will yours be ready?¡± he inquired as they walked along the street lined with half-built homes, evidently designed to accommodate multiple occupants, though Dimer couldn¡¯t fathom why on such a spacious island.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she admitted, wrinkling her nose. ¡°Maybe in a week¡¯s time; mine will likely be the last.¡±

    ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± Dimer pressed gently.¡°It¡¯s just how it is,¡± she replied simply. As they passed, Dimer noticed whispers among the Nirani men working on the houses, their eyes following him with curiosity and perhaps a hint of amusement.They arrived at her humble shack soon enough. Dimer carefully laid her down on the bed.

    ¡°You know, I could¡¯ve walked here by myself,¡± she said suddenly, studying him intently.

    ¡°Well of course, it wasn¡¯t your feet that were injured after all.¡± Dimer felt as if he was missing something from the way she stared at him but he didn¡¯t know what he could do. ¡°Well you should rest anyways.¡± He told her as he left.

    ¡°Thank you Dimer.¡± She whispered softly. As he left Dimer felt as if he had found the place- no the person, he belonged by.

 Chapter 17|Sylas|Turukhan, Shattered Realms|

    "I''ve already eaten," Sylas declared to the group, their eyes tracking him with a hunger that matched his own discomfort. His stomach churned from his earlier indulgence, but he pressed on.

    "Then I trust this is for us?" Roy inquired, stepping forward with drool glistening on his lips.

    "You''d be mistaken," Sylas replied curtly, shoving the smaller man aside as he continued. The rabbit in his grasp was not his, but for Aerith and himself. Aerith had sent him hunting, longing for a meal that offered more than the usual fare. Even though the camp¡¯s chef provided ample food, Sylas had learned in the Sea of Reeds that quality always trumped quantity.From the corner of his eye, Sylas noticed Vyra. He tried to avoid her, knowing she wouldn''t leave him be if she discovered his plans with Aerith. His efforts were in vain; she approached him, her black hair streaming behind her like a banner atop a castle tower.

    "Going to eat off by yourself again, I see," Vyra remarked, her disdain evident. Sylas narrowed his eyes but chose to ignore her. With an air of superiority, he lifted his chin and strode past. His attempt to dismiss her only seemed to provoke her further. She followed silently until realization struck her.

    "Are you going to eat with Aerith?" she cried, jumping in front of him. Sylas sighed, knowing he couldn¡¯t shake her off now.

    "Yes, just me and Aerith. Notice you weren''t invited, so move," Sylas said, pushing her aside. She blocked his way, undeterred. Grabbing his arm, she tried to trip him, but he landed on his feet, his arm twisted uncomfortably. He glared at her, but she held on stubbornly.

    "Why wasn''t I invited?" she complained, twisting his arm further. Sylas stamped his foot in pain, but she ignored it. "Why is it always you? I''ve been here much longer."

    "Maybe because I''m less annoying," he retorted. She shot him a sharp glare, coming face to face with him.

    "The only annoying thing here is you trailing Aerith like a lost goat," she spat. Enraged, Sylas smacked her with the rabbit carcass. She shrieked, yanked it from his hands, and flung it far outside the castle ruins. They stared at the spot where it landed before turning back to each other, tension crackling between them.

    "Great, now none of us will eat with Aerith," Vyra said, crossing her arms with a sigh.

    "That was my rabbit!" Sylas shouted. She recoiled, taking a fighting stance, and Sylas knew he couldn''t let her insolence go unpunished. He roared in fury, swinging a punch, but stopped midway at the sound of a cheerful voice.

    "Sylas, I can hear Vyra out there too! Why don''t you invite her along?" Sylas collapsed to the ground with a groan. Vyra stuck her tongue out at him and headed up the stairs.

    "You can explain about the rabbit," Sylas muttered, quickly following her. She laughed, her whole body shaking as if it were the funniest thing she had ever heard. Sylas couldn¡¯t see the humor in it. They reached Aerith''s door, and Vyra pushed it open, peering inside until Aerith swung it wide with a grin. His white curls framed his face as he spun around the room, settling into his chair.

    "Come in, come in," he greeted. He looked at Sylas expectantly, as if waiting for something.

    "Oh yes, the rabbit," Sylas muttered, glancing at Vyra. She looked away, feigning innocence, and Sylas sighed. "It ran away when I caught it," he lied, holding his breath. Beside him, Vyra sighed in relief.

    "While it was dead?" Aerith asked incredulously. Sylas rubbed his face, feeling hotter by the second.

    "Well, it wasn''t dead¡ªnot yet¡ªso that''s how it ran away," Sylas explained. Aerith raised a brow, clearly skeptical.

    "So, you''re saying you caught it with your hands while chasing it? Because otherwise, you''d have used a tool and killed it, right? Or am I mistaken?" Aerith pressed. Sylas laughed nervously, nudging Vyra to speak up, but she remained silent.

    "No, you''re not mistaken, Aerith," Sylas replied. "I caught it with my hands. It didn''t see me coming, and before I knew it, I had it. But then it jumped out of my grasp and got away." He stared into Aerith''s eyes, willing him to believe the story. Aerith laughed, patting Sylas on the back.

    "Well then, you must be quite the hunter, Sylas. Both a warrior and a hunter," he said, rubbing his nose. "Few of those, few of those," he muttered. He gestured for them to sit on the floor, and they complied.

    "You handled that pretty well, you know. Props to you," Vyra said with a sly grin.

    "Thank you very much," Sylas replied through gritted teeth. She giggled, and Aerith smiled, prompting Sylas to smile as well. Despite Vyra''s occasional annoyance, their company always felt comforting.

    "Rabbit or not, we still have important matters to discuss," Aerith said, his stomach grumbling. "We would have needed to cook it anyway, and who knows how long that would have taken." He shook his head, dismissing the rabbit. "On to more important matters," he said, taking a scroll from the table and holding it out to Sylas. Sylas reached for it, then hesitated, remembering he couldn''t read. Aerith grinned at him.

    "This message was sent by our employers with an intriguing offer I''d like to discuss with you both," Aerith said, unfurling the scroll. "It''s an unusual contract, one that might require more..." he gestured vaguely, searching for the word, "diplomacy. They could have sent a diplomat, but no matter."

    "What does it say?" Vyra asked, peering curiously at the scroll. Aerith pulled it away, pushing her face back, and Sylas chuckled.

    "The king wants us to join his military," Aerith said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "It''s quite unorthodox, and I''m uncertain how he''ll proceed with this." He rolled up the scroll, looking at them expectantly.

    "It sounds like a good idea, but wouldn''t that mean we stop being mercenaries?" Vyra remarked. Aerith sighed, reclining in his chair.

    "True, but it''s a step toward something more," he said, staring into the distance.

    "And what would that be?" Vyra asked. Aerith grabbed her face, grinning.

    "I''m glad you asked. It makes me happy when you do, but I can''t tell you yet. Maybe one day," he replied. Vyra blinked, her cheeks turning rosy.

    "Well then, let''s join," Sylas said, stretching out his legs. "You seem eager, so what more is there to say?" He picked at something between his teeth.

    "Forgive me for valuing my soldiers'' opinions," Aerith said, standing up. Sylas could only wonder how far that value went for Aerith. Vyra snorted.

    "Sylas hardly represents what they think. I know them better. Sylas probably doesn''t even know their names." Sylas debated whether to be angry, knowing her words held some truth. He knew a few names, but not many. The one he knew best, besides Vyra and Aerith, was Landon. Landon often checked on Sylas, bringing food and engaging in conversations Sylas enjoyed, despite himself. It saddened him that he didn''t visit Landon more often.

    "Then Sylas would need to represent himself if he were the only one like him in this camp," Aerith said. Vyra shrugged, muttering something inaudible.

    "Well then, I will accept this deal," Aerith announced, stretching. Though it was still high noon, Sylas suspected that Aerith rarely slept.

    "Does this mean we would move into the castle?" Sylas asked, curious. Aerith smiled.

    "Eyeing the high life, Kor''Zil?" Aerith teased. Sylas shrugged, smiling a bit himself.

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    "I wonder what kind of food they have," Vyra mused, biting her lip. "Imagine the pastries and meats." She stood up, gripping Aerith''s shoulders. Sylas felt a chill seeing her so touchy with their captain, but Aerith didn''t seem to mind."What''s their king like, Aerith? Only you''ve seen him, right?" she asked, spinning him around. Aerith laughed but stopped her by holding her hips. He looked into her eyes for a moment, and Sylas wondered if he was wanted in the room.

    "This king has a castle larger than any we''ve ever seen," Aerith said. "Bigger than the Altan''s castle, and grander than the mountains in Cragoria." Vyra''s eyes sparkled, and Sylas wondered how long she had lived here with Aerith in these castle ruins.

    "We''d have our own rooms?" Sylas asked. Aerith nodded.

    "You''d have the loneliest room for yourself, Kor''Zil," Aerith said, placing a hand on Sylas''s shoulder as he walked by him. "Come, let us get food from the chef. I''m starving." Vyra quickly followed Aerith out but stopped to look back at Sylas.

    "Are you coming?" Vyra asked. Sylas nodded, covering his left eye. It felt odd, almost as if it were shaking. When he removed his hand, everything he saw from that eye was blurred, the world trembling. He banged the side of his head repeatedly until Vyra caught his arm, looking shocked.

    "What are you doing?" she asked, concerned. Sylas met her gaze and realized the shaking had stopped. How peculiar.

    "Oh, just a minor headache, probably from sleeping on the stone," he mumbled. Rolling her eyes, she pulled him out of the room. Sylas noticed Aerith hadn''t waited for them, but Vyra didn''t seem bothered.

    "You should really take some hay or blankets," Vyra said, touching where he''d hit his head.

    "I''ve never needed them until now," Sylas replied. She shrugged.

    "Doesn''t mean you won''t need them now," she retorted, leaving Sylas tongue-tied. Aerith turned around, smiling and waving for them to join him. They hurried over. The cook, "Bro," looked happier than Sylas had ever seen him.

    "It''s an honor to have you here, Captain Aerith," Bro said, grinning broadly. Aerith inclined his head slightly, a hint of mock respect.

    "It''s good to come out and keep the troops happy," he joked. Sylas sensed everyone''s eyes on them as they got their food. When Bro served Sylas, the only word to describe the meal was ''brown''¡ªnothing else quite fit. No one else seemed bothered as they began eating. Aerith motioned for them to follow him up a staircase, overlooking the others gathering below."How''s the food?" Aerith called down. There were mixed replies, mostly positive. Sylas pushed his plate away, feeling nauseous. Vyra shot him a glare.

    "You don''t like it?" Vyra accused, and Sylas shook his head.

    "Just not hungry, that''s all," he replied, patting his stomach. It wasn''t a lie; he had eaten while hunting, but Vyra didn''t believe him.

    "I call it bogus," she declared, grabbing his spoon and holding it out to him. Sylas leaned back, lips tight, refusing to eat. "You''re just like a child!" she exclaimed.

    "Yeah, a child who isn''t hungry," Sylas muttered, but his defiance backfired as she shoved the spoon into his mouth. He gagged, coughing and spitting it out, the food falling down onto someone''s head below. Luckily, it was Stone, and Sylas groaned. Vyra burst into laughter, struggling to stifle it.Glancing at Aerith, Sylas felt uneasy under his gaze. Aerith turned away, letting his legs dangle off the edge of the ruined room as he addressed the soldiers gathered below. There were too many for Sylas to count, maybe fifty or so he guessed.

    "My good soldiers!" Aerith called out. "I''ve received a message from our employer, the King. We''re to join his army. A great honor, wouldn''t you all agree?" Cheers erupted, some soldiers tossing plates and embracing each other. Sylas noticed Bro''s crestfallen expression, confirming his earlier suspicion.

    "When will this contract be in place, Captain?" someone shouted from the crowd. Aerith laughed, crossing his legs, clearly amused by the enthusiasm of his soldiers.

    "I''ll go tomorrow, accompanied by my good friends Kor''Zil and Vyra, of course. In our absence, I''ll leave Stone in charge here," Aerith declared. Sylas sighed in relief, glad he wouldn''t be left alone with Stone. He noticed not everyone seemed thrilled about him accompanying Aerith, a pang hitting his heart, but he pushed the feeling aside.

    "Tell them about the perks we''ll get once we join their army!" Vyra exclaimed, shaking Aerith''s shoulder. He paused, then relayed the details. The soldiers erupted in excitement, some rushing off to pack, though Sylas doubted they had much beyond their swords.

    "Let''s not rush," Aerith cautioned, raising a hand. "Wait until I give the order. Nothing is set in stone yet." The soldiers murmured and grumbled as they returned to their places.

    "Why''s Kor''Zil going with you and not one of us?" someone called from the crowd. Aerith''s smile wavered briefly. Emboldened, others began to voice their discontent, much to Sylas''s disappointment. Vyra laughed, playfully punching Sylas in the shoulder.

    "See?" she teased. "I''m not the only one who finds you annoying." Sylas managed a sheepish laugh, which seemed to sober her amusement. Surprisingly, she placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Startled, Sylas looked at her; her cheeks flushed, she quickly withdrew her hand, as if surprised by her own gesture.

    "It''s my order, and it won''t be questioned," Aerith snapped suddenly, his voice cutting through the murmurs. Instantly, the soldiers fell silent, not daring to utter a word. In the quiet, Sylas thought he could hear a fly''s wings flapping across realms. Aerith glared down at them before turning to Sylas and Vyra.

    "Go to your quarters and rest until dawn tomorrow. Pack your things, if you have any," he ordered. With that, their audience with Aerith ended as he descended the stairs, every step regal. The soldiers parted to let him through, heads bowed.

    "You enjoying that?" Vyra asked, lying down on the floor. Sylas chuckled, noticing Aerith had left his food untouched, which struck him as amusing.

    "I''d be lying if I said I wasn''t," he admitted, leaning back against the wall. They stood in silence for a moment until Vyra spoke again.

    "You don''t have anything besides your swords to take, do you?" she inquired. Sylas shook his head.

    "Nothing else," he confirmed. She nodded slowly, then got back up.

    "What if we go hunting out there?" she suggested. Sylas burst into laughter.

    "Why bother when there''s good food right here at our feet?" he teased. She rolled her eyes, poking his chest lightly.

    "I''m suggesting it for the sport, not because the food''s bad," she retorted.

    "Has anyone ever told you that you''re a terrible liar?" he quipped. She punched his chest playfully, her touch light.

    "Well, I think I''ll go get some sleep," Sylas said, stretching. "I have trouble sleeping at night anyway, so it''s probably better for me." Vyra sighed, looking disappointed.

    "If you say so," she replied, starting to descend the stairs, leaving Sylas alone again. He waited until she was a distance away before heading down himself. The main yard was empty after Aerith''s departure, so he encountered no obstacles returning to his area.Upon arriving, Sylas realized his space was so small it could hardly accommodate more than two people, intensifying his sense of loneliness. His swords stood proudly, but even they failed to stir any emotions in him. He climbed onto the makeshift bed and leaned against it, feeling weary.

    "Disappointed again, are we?" came a hoarse voice from behind him. Sylas immediately recognized the voice of the old man.

    "I wouldn''t say disappointed," Sylas replied, but the old man just snorted.

    "Tell that to someone who''d believe it," he retorted hoarsely. "I certainly wouldn''t." Sylas rolled his eyes, wondering what the man wanted from him."I hear you''re going to the King''s castle with Aerith," the old man said, attempting to start a conversation.

    "Yes, I am," Sylas replied dryly. Now it was the old man''s turn to sigh loudly, though it sounded more like a cough.

    "Well, I must admit, this rabbit tastes very good," the old man commented, munching on something. Now he had piqued Sylas''s interest. He turned around to get a good look at the man but froze when he spoke again.

    "I wouldn''t suggest that now," the old man warned. "I''m quite an ugly sight, you know. There''s a reason not many come by to look after me."

    "Where did you get the rabbit, then?" Sylas demanded. The man laughed, a sound akin to thunder.

    "Well, I can still walk when I want to," he replied mysteriously, munching down on his rabbit again. Sylas wanted to get a good look at the man, but he realized it didn''t really matter; he would just see an old and weathered face, nothing much to look at.

    "What''s your name, old man?" Sylas called out. Since their first conversation, he had spoken to the man only twice more, despite his attempts, but he had never thought to ask for his name.

    "Oh, I don''t remember, in truth," the man said, letting out a loud burp. "It''s been ages, anyway. And who needs a name? I mean, you didn''t tell Aerith yours, did you?" He chuckled, sending a shiver down Sylas''s spine.

    "Of course, when you have no name..." The man continued, "...what name can you give?""Right," Sylas said, looking back without moving his head.

    "I guess names aren''t that important," he conceded, but the man made a tsk tsk noise."Wrong," he corrected.

    "I said ''who needs a name,'' not that names were useless. Someone important like you could certainly use a name." The man''s words confused Sylas; he didn''t fully understand what he was saying.

    "You think I''m important?" he asked disbelievingly. The man laughed again, sounding like lightning in a storm.

    "Not yet, oh brothers, no!" the old man declared. "But one day, you will be important, that''s what I know." Rain began to fall from the darkened sky, casting a shadow over him, leaving him in the dim light. It felt as though this always happened, as if the rain fell because of him. Once, he would have scoffed at such thoughts, dismissing them as ridiculous. He was no one important, or so he told himself.

    "That''s what you believe," he murmured, gazing up at the sky. As the rain descended, he let it wash over him. It trailed down his face and soaked his clothes, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a semblance of peace.