Dreamcrown – The Royal Palace – inside the King's private wing
In a dimly lit chamber, where the crystal chandelier above gave off only the dying remnants of flame, the quarters of the young king, Irvin Luskarth, resembled less a royal residence and more a deathbed draped in the guise of a palace.
The air was too heavy to breathe, as though the walls themselves pressed upon his chest. His thin body was drenched in sweat, strands of long black hair clinging to his face and sharp cheekbones. His features were pale, like an unfinished marble carving.
To his left sat the sage Anthony Miller, scribbling notes in black ink, his head bowed toward the paper as if afraid the words might devour him. To his right stood Duke Lucas Nightover, like a sentinel statue, face unreadable, his dark eyes narrowed as though awaiting an inevitable collapse.
The king's fingers trembled above the white sheets, his chest rising and falling in broken rhythm, his head twitching involuntarily, muttering fragmented sounds—distorted whispers from another world.
Then suddenly, he opened his eyes. Sunken blackness filled his pupils; his breath was ragged, each inhale a battle. The sage rushed forward, grasped his wrist, then gently released it, whispering: "Good morning, Your Majesty… how do you feel now?"
But Irvin did not turn to him. His gaze fixed on the ceiling, eyes locked upon a void only he could see. With effort, he shifted his body and leaned against the pillow. He was present, yet absent. And then, in a faint voice, barely audible, he spoke:
"The Kingdom… of Ghosts."
Anthony's head snapped up, his voice gentle yet tense: "Pardon, Your Majesty… I didn't quite understand. What did you say?"
Lucas's eyes narrowed further, his fist tightening. Irvin slowly raised his head, staring into emptiness, his broken voice quivering:
Irvin: "The fog bent over the kingdom like a damp funeral shroud."
Anthony froze, while Lucas's eyes widened abruptly, as if choking back an inner cry. Yet Irvin continued, sweat running down from his temples to his neck:
Irvin: "In the streets there reigned a strange silence— Not the silence of fear, but the silence of teeth clamped on dead words.
And as I walked among the shadows, I heard a voice pierce the fog:
'Stranger… do you see us?'
I turned—saw no face, only masks of flesh clawing at the thrones of rule. Bodies walking, whose hearts had ceased a thousand years ago. Children playing with skulls as though they were balls."
"I screamed: 'Who are you?!'
And another voice replied, like a blade scraping against bone—"
Lucas stepped forward sharply, his voice clipped and stern:
"Irvin! That's enough!."
But the king did not hear him. His eyes widened further, swallowing the void, his voice tearing the air apart.
Irvin: "We are not the ones who died…
We are the ones who were born dead.
The dead rest in peace beneath the earth.
But we… we refuse to rest.
We live to devour the image of life,
to sink our teeth into the breaths of love seeping from our graves!"
Lucas lunged forward, shouting his name, but the sage raised a hand to halt him, his face pale as chalk.
Irvin: "I raised my hand, and it touched the liquid air… thick with the ghosts of life.
Men carrying their own names as burdens.
Ghosts of death… phantoms clinging to memories that were never theirs.
I asked: 'Then what is the difference?'
They laughed. Their laughter creaked like a door in an abandoned palace.
They cried out: 'There is no difference!'
The living ghosts build kingdoms from the screams of the dead, And the ghosts of death weep for bodies they never knew.
The kingdom itself… is the greatest ghost of all."
His whole body convulsed, sweat dripping like rain upon his chest. Yet something shifted in his eyes. Slowly, their blackness steadied, his breathing grew even, as if the fevered vision had ebbed, leaving only its shadows behind.
Anthony approached, grasped his hand, his voice low and trembling: "His pulse is steady… he's returned to himself now."
A fraction of the tension loosened in Lucas's shoulders, though his fist remained clenched. The sage gathered his notes, shut his medicine case, and spoke as he prepared to depart: "He will improve if he takes the medicine before sleep… but do not overuse it. Too much will turn it into a narcotic, and it may destroy him further."
Then, in a hushed voice at the threshold, he added: "There is no complete cure for his illness… but I've heard of remedies in the West that might ease his symptoms."
The door closed behind him.
Lucas remained standing, staring at the weary young king. Irvin sat hunched, one hand covering his face. Beads of sweat still streamed down his brow, threading through damp hair plastered to his cheeks. His thin robe, slipping from his left shoulder, exposed a sharp collarbone, the body of a youth not yet fully grown.
Lucas spoke quietly, uncertain: "Do you… feel any better?"
Irvin did not answer at first. He exhaled slowly, as though his chest was relearning to breathe. Then, in a hoarse, faint voice, without raising his head, he said:
"You may leave… Lucas."
The duke stood motionless for a moment, his eyes studying the frail figure of his king. At last, he exhaled, turned, and walked toward the door with deliberate steps.
When the door shut behind him, Irvin lowered his hand from his face. His gaze was fixed upon a faraway point, his black eyes, still glimmering with the remnants of fever, suspended in emptiness. He drew a deep breath, like one rising from the grave… then rose slowly, his hoarse voice echoing into the void:
Irvin: "Newfear."
Emberville – Where Fire Devours Gold
The sky was stained a dark copper hue, and the fields once famed for their golden wheat were consumed by tongues of flame, as though hunger itself had become fire. Behind the gray walls of House Cypher Castle, knights lined up in heavy garments and with restless hearts. Their eyes were fixed upon the rising blaze, as if they were watching their wealth, their land, and even their history evaporate into the air.
Among them stood a man without armor, his bare shoulders furrowed with the scars of battles, his thick beard like a tangled hawk's nest. His voice pierced the silence of dread:
"They're no army… but hired gangs. They smash, then vanish like damn cats."
Even the stench was a battlefield of its own: the reek of burning bomb oil mixed with the sweat of anxious horses, a vapor that seared the throat, insisting that this war was not honor, nor glory… but smoke and bitterness.
On the northern tower, women in patched clothing held lamps filled with alcohol. At the first cry, they hurled them down. Flames of blue fire exploded across the attackers' bodies, searing as though tiny suns had descended to earth. Feet burned, armor cracked apart, and screams rose like a chorus of terror.
But deep in the night, beneath the veil of fire, Malacard's soldiers moved in silence. They slipped through forgotten passageways until they reached a fortified storehouse. There they found a black chest wrapped in dragonhide, hiding within it maps of Cypher's weapon caches. It was more than theft—it was the severing of a lifeline. And when they departed, the chest vanished under the cloak of shadows… to be used in a war yet to come.
Azmarth – Knights of the Black Desert
In the desert, the horizon looked like the gaping maw of a dead buffalo swallowing the sky. Suddenly, the earth split, and from it emerged five hundred men—knights of the Black Desert—their faces veiled with shrouds pale as burial cloths. It looked less like an ambush than a resurrection of the dead.
The horses of House Sparoff did not shudder despite the screaming, for their ears were bound in taut hides, deaf to the whistle of the wind. But the attackers did not rely on swords alone; they raised cloths smeared with crocodile blood, their stench so pungent that even the beasts recoiled in fright.
From a rickety bridge on the edge of the village, the women of Rimal watched the attack. One gasped aloud: "Look… they melt in the sun! They are not men!"
As for the Mirage Knights, they appeared as wavering forms, dancing like phantoms, cracking under the blaze of the sun, then vanishing only to return again. A fear sharper than swords—for imagination slays before truth does.
Ayvin – The Deerhollow Valley Breeds Ghosts
The moon sagged in the sky like a tarnished copper coin, casting its glow over the valley as though the earth itself were dying. From between the rocks, three hundred Malacard mercenaries slid down on elastic ropes from the mountain peaks, landing without a sound… like black specters.
But House Rosefield's defense was no less uncanny. Its warriors had adorned their swords with the wings of dead bats, moving swiftly and then vanishing into the darkness, as though the night itself swallowed them whole. The howling wind merged with strangled cries, turning the battle into a ghostly dance, where none could tell the living from the fallen.
Then came the horrific discovery… On a withered tree in the valley's heart hung the corpse of a knight, stabbed through, his belly split open and stuffed with the seeds of the poisonous Shadow-plant. At the first breath of wind, swarms of locusts erupted, surging like a black storm, devouring every leaf and blade of grass. The very earth itself turned against the defenders.
Azmoff – A Northern Invasion Like Plague
Azmoff's assault was no battle… but an inundation. The attackers poured forth like a murky flood, not content with plunder, but bent on smashing all that stood. Fields were burned, cisterns blown apart, even ancient scrolls in the monks' scriptoriums were ripped and flung into the fire.
Armored carts, stolen from the castle's forges, were driven into villages. They did not merely crush houses—they leveled graveyards to forge new roads atop the dead.
The soldiers of House Morlan fought with bitterness. They carried with them small cloth pouches, each holding bread their mothers had hastily baked before they departed. The scent of the bread mingled with blood, reminding them that what they fought for was not king nor prince… but memory.
And upon the columns of the great temple, the invaders scrawled words in blood: "This is what becomes of those who send knights to Draxul."
The message was clear: the answer would not be fair war… but breathless vengeance.
Saveros – The Land of Kallery and suburbs of Raispon, Where Eyes Watch
Saveros was no battlefield of fire… but a web of eyes. Upon the flat rooftops of the low houses, Hartley's sentinels spread like ants, each bearing a tool of precision. Some carried tiny flutes, inaudible to men, but whistling signals to dogs. Others polished fractured mirrors that reflected not full images, but shifting silhouettes of men who vanished, then appeared again.
In the alleys, a child tossed glass marbles filled with red clay at the feet of the intruders—a simple marker to identify every stranger. Meanwhile, in a kitchen, an old grandmother sat above an empty pot, letting out white steam—guiding the archers to their mark. Every detail here was a signal, every motion a thread in the net.
Then came the revelation… the wounded among the attackers bore strange tattoos on their arms—a red serpent devouring its own tail. It was not Hartley's emblem, but the sign of an eastern mercenary band, hired to sow chaos. In this war, truth was no longer clear; even symbols had become weapons of deceit.
Vulkorth – Ravenholm – The Secret Base of Malacard, Where Steps Are Measured
Deep within Darkfeather Palace, where light reached only as a single orphaned thread, Duke Rossipov Malacard sat before maps illuminated by small flames. Each province glowed like a pulsing point of fire—like a heart on the verge of rupture.
One by one, soldiers entered with their reports:
"Cypher is busy extinguishing its storehouses.
Sparoff fights its eternal enemies as ever.
Morlan is absorbed in defending its capital.
Rosefield chases the locusts that ruined their crops.
Hartley… didn't dare sent a single man to Draxul."
The duke fell silent for a long while. Then he pressed his thumb upon the map of the capital until it blackened. He spoke in a voice like the edge of a sword being drawn from its sheath:
"Gold and fire… are brothers. They will all choke."
In the corner, a messenger stood with a letter sealed in black wax, its heading only one line:
"The Kingdom's Stranglehold."
Dreamcrown – Near the Golden Gate of the Royal Palace
At the gates of the Royal Palace in Dreamcrown, fierce winds swirled, carrying strange breezes laced with the heavy scent of smoke, wrapping the air in their grip.
In that moment, a large, lavish carriage approached, surrounded by knights mounted on powerful steeds.
The carriage was black as midnight ink, its side bearing an emblem finely engraved with artistic precision: the crimson serpent.
When the carriage halted before the palace gates, one of the knights stepped forward from the ranks, producing an ornate torch crafted from gleaming black metal. Holding it steady toward the sky, he released it slowly upward. From the torch billowed thick crimson smoke, swiftly filling the air and engulfing the sky. As it rose, the red hue spread across the horizon, seeping into the clouds and draping the heavens in a blazing curtain of fire—like an ancient tale retold of wars and oaths.
This was the Fire Call, an unchanging tradition of House Vanheim. Wherever they set foot, each torch released in this way was a formal declaration… a proclamation of their arrival. The crimson smoke mingled with the city air, creeping into every corner, as though the sky itself answered their summons.
The knights reined in their horses before the gates, all eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun had vanished behind scarlet clouds, as if awaiting a pivotal moment.
From afar, the people of Dreamcrown began to gather in the streets, their whispers rising, as though the wind itself carried the scent of their fear and curiosity. Some murmured, eyes tracking every movement with wary precision: "The sky… the crimson serpent… this means—"
But they were cut short by an unnatural silence, as if time itself had paused for an instant.
Some of the nobles instinctively took a step back, the jewels on their arms glinting as they avoided meeting the carriage with a direct gaze. Words stumbled over their lips, worry etched deep on their faces, wearied by the turns of fate. They clutched the hems of their cloaks, whispering—not out of fear of being overheard, but because they truly did not know what the next moments would bring.
Then, muffled chants rose from the waiting crowd, repeating words Dreamcrown knew all too well—words that had become a lingering ghost upon their tongues:
"When the sky turns crimson, we have arrived."
The sound reverberated through the air, as though the words of House Vanheim had been woven into the very fabric of the city. The crimson sky burned brighter, its fiery red light shaping itself into a raging blaze, ready to consume all in its path.
The knights began to dismount slowly, step by step, as though carrying the weight of the past with all its dark secrets upon their shoulders. The carriage swayed faintly, as if something deep within it had awakened—like an army poised to descend onto the battlefield.
House Vanheim had arrived.
Inside the Royal Palace – Before the King's Private wing
The long corridor leading to the king's door was like the hidden arteries of the palace; silent, dim, pulsing with dread. Pale marble columns stood like frozen sentinels from an ancient age, carrying between their flanks long shadows that dangled from the high ceiling like suspended ghosts.
On the walls, low candles struggled to stay alight, their flames twisting as if trying to escape their doomed fate. Their faint glow licked the faces of the statues of former kings carved into the walls, making their stony eyes seem as though they were watching anyone daring enough to pass through.
And at the end, where the corridor narrowed and bent like the back of an old man, stood the door.
Not just a door, but a threshold between two worlds. Its cracked black wood bore the scars of time, while its cold iron lock gleamed faintly under the candlelight, like an unblinking eye.
Here… where even the air seemed heavy as lead, and sounds died before they were born…
Here… the entire palace was trapped in a silence that screamed.
Inside, the silence was dense, like a black fabric draped across the void. No sound but a faint, whispering vibration—perhaps the fading steps of distant servants vanishing into the palace's labyrinth, or perhaps the very breath of the ancient stones themselves. The only light was a narrow golden ribbon of sunlight spilling from a high window, cutting the heavy darkness with a sword of dancing dust. Those wandering motes of dust, caught in the beam, seemed like tiny stars imprisoned in an underworld.
And in the farthest corner, where shadow met shadow, there was the door.
It was unlike the other ornate doors, rich with carvings and figures. This one was simple, old, made of dark wood frayed at the edges, as though woven from the palace's forgotten memory. No ornament adorned it, save for a heavy black iron lock, dull, swallowing any stray glimmer of light that dared approach. Above it, where an emblem should have been, there was instead a darkened circular scar—an old crest or sigil carefully erased, a wound carved into the wood's forehead. It loomed not as an entrance, but as a barrier… or a tomb for a buried secret.
Then…
Without creak, without warning, the door slid inward with an eerie slowness, like the mouth of a beast opening in silence. From the darkness it had swallowed emerged first a long shadow, and then the king himself—Irvin Luscarth—stepping into the dim light.
His movement was deliberate, unhurried, like a man bearing the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He did not look back. He gripped the edge of the door with a hand that looked pale even in that golden haze, and pressed it shut with a silence louder than a scream.
Clack.
The sound of the lock snapping into place sliced through the room's stillness like a knife—clear and final despite its faintness, a declaration that something had ended, known only to him.
Irvin paused. He stood motionless, his back to the sealed door, his face drowned in the half-shadow cast by the cornered walls. He closed his eyes. In those brief seconds, every mask of the powerful king fell away. The lines of weariness upon his face, always hidden beneath the halo of authority, suddenly deepened like furrows in parched earth. The sigh that followed from his chest was deep, long, bitter—as though he was exhaling a secret soul that had been tormenting him within. His lips quivered faintly, a subtle tremor invisible to all but those who knew how to look.
Then he opened his eyes.
The gleam of defiance, even the weight of wisdom that the palace had grown used to, was gone. In its place lay something else: a weary emptiness, a somber certainty, exhaustion sinking into the bone. The gaze of a man who had seen his true face in a dark mirror and could not look away.
He grasped his staff, leaning on it as though it were the last support left in a collapsing world. His first steps away from the door were heavy, almost defeated, grinding the silence beneath his heels. He walked through the strip of golden light, appearing for a moment like a passing specter, before sinking once again into the shadow of the long corridor, vanishing from the chamber and leaving behind only the old door in its dark corner—a silent sentinel over the emptiness and secrets sealed beyond it.
Dreamcrown – In the heart of the glittering capital, where golden domes rival the clouds in their height, nobles swayed to the music of violins inside the "Palace of Mirrors."
Reflections of golden light on crystalline surfaces turned the dancers into flickering phantoms, moving in a parallel world.
Lady Marylan Vanthorp, in her blue gown that floated like a midnight lake dotted with ruby sparks, let her laughter ring out like a string of crystal bells. At her side, a bowing servant whispered: "They say the South burns with rebellion…" She raised her glass with a smile: "Distant wars are but spices for our soirées!"
On the castle balcony overlooking the river, Laris Converi, only nineteen, carefully penned a note: "Father… Dreamcrown is a dream that murders reality. Here, wars are told like tales sipped with wine."
He tossed the paper into the river after finishing his letter. The wind caught it for a moment, making it look like a white butterfly, before it clung to a crust of moldy bread. It floated on black waters carrying blue-molded crumbs, the blood of dead fish, and a withered flower thrown by a poor lover.
Novaca – miles away, the air choked with golden dust and the sting of hot pepper
Boris Kravnik, a spice merchant, barked at Miko, a boy of seventeen, while the weight of a wooden crate bent his shoulders: "Faster, rat's whelp! The Malacard ships do not wait for the weak!"
Miko hunched, revealing bloody welts across his back shining under his torn shirt like a crimson spider's web.
In a corner of the marketplace, Goran, an arms dealer, polished a dagger with his crippled hand. A veiled noblewoman approached him: "Will this save me from Malacard's men?"
He turned the blade toward the sun, a glint flashing across his dead eyes: "My lady… in a land where the soul sells for a single dirham, this will serve only to make your death more painful…"
Vulkorth – Blacksoul Village – A mud hut
Inside a hut of cracked clay, Maria sat on a wobbling chair. Her breath was ragged, her eyes red as embers. Her five-year-old son, Elio, tugged at the torn edge of her dress: "Mother… where did Father go?"
Maria tried to smile, but her hand trembled as she placed it on his chest. "On a long mission, my son…" Elio looked toward the window, where the wheels of a cart laden with swords and spears crushed the muddy street: "Will he come back soon?"
At that moment, Maria heard the distant drums of war. Her sigh turned into a muffled sob. She bent over her son, her tears falling into his black hair: "Yes… he will hold us soon."
But she knew her husband, Kalianen, was even now being burned with the bodies of the rebels in Draxul.
Ravenholm – Darkfeather Palace – The square of rebellion, hours earlier
Before the stone palace, shaped like a giant raven's skull, Duke Rossipov Malacard, with his son, Kray. stood upon the balcony. Below him, ten thousand men; peasants with rusted pickaxes, blacksmiths with ox tails bound to their arms, women wielding spears forged from broken barn swords. Among them stood Stokan, seventy years old, gripping a sickle once used for harvesting wheat.
The duke raised his voice, thunder splitting the horizon: "Today! We do not fight for gold, nor for titles… We fight because dignity cannot be sold in the Crown's markets!."
The men roared as one: "For our land!!"
Suddenly, the palace gates burst open. Malacard knights emerged, clad in black armor engraved with the golden raven, joining the peasants. Among them, Karja, commander of the desert, laughed as he polished his blade: "We will make their corpses fertilizer for our soil!"
Borders of Draxul – The Field of Death.
The ground shook beneath the boots of Arcadia's First Battalion. Ser Aser Norlan, their commander, raised his sword as he saw the peasant army swarming like starving ants: "These are no soldiers! They are rats!"
But the "rats" surged like a flood. Miko, the boy from Novaca's market, was stabbed in the belly as he tried to strike a knight. His blood mixed with the dirt.
Within just an hour of battle, the Crown's First Battalion had fallen. Ser Aser Norlan was at the front lines, his sword carving through flesh like a knife through sea foam. He saw Karja, commander of the Black Desert Knights, roaring like a wounded bull: "This land belongs to whomever fills my pockets with gold, you dogs of the Crown!"
Aser lunged like lightning, his blade singing in the air like a death whistle. But Karja—the Red Hyena—caught the movement with beastly instinct.
"Oh, golden boy!" Karja sneered with a guttural laugh, raising his curved blade. "Do you think the Crown's glory will save you today?"
Their swords clashed in a blinding spark. Aser pressed forward with all his strength, but Karja twisted like a serpent, his rusted armor shrieking under the strain. Sliding like venom under Aser's guard, he scraped the knight's shield with savage force.
A moment's hesitation… then Aser struck like an arrow, his sword drawing a deadly arc. Karja tried to recoil, but too slow—far too slow.
"Damn gold…" he whispered in his final breath, just as the silver gleam reached his throat.
Karja's head dipped slowly, like a withered flower severed by the wind. His heavy body collapsed into the dirt, his head rolling like a bronze orb, an open mouth exhaling a red cloud. His once-greedy eyes now stared into emptiness, as if searching for a final coin in the realm of the dead.
Before the stunned soldiers, his fall was a silent scream—a bloody reminder that all the gold in the world cannot buy a single heartbeat of life.
Then, through the smoke, Rossipov Malacard appeared. His eyes, like those of a starving wolf, burned with golden fire. His black armor rang like a funeral bell.
The two men clashed; Aser's sword, a silver whistle cleaving the air. Rossipov's, a black roar stirring ancient memory.
In that frozen moment of time, where the soldiers' breaths turned into icy clouds, the two men danced a legendary duel of death. Their movements seemed written in destiny's ink upon the pages of the wind.
"You betray Arcadia's crown!" Aser spat, his words falling like golden shards from a bleeding mouth. "The Crown betrayed our blood!" Rossipov thundered back, like the growl of earth before an earthquake.
Silence followed, like a rip in the fabric of time, the world holding still to witness this scene. Then, like a knife finding the heart of ripe fruit, Rossipov's blade sank into Aser's chest.
It was no ordinary strike—it was fate's needle stitching the end of a life with the black silk of death. The sword pushed deeper, until the hilt struck bone with a hollow thud, like a nail driven into the coffin of the world.
In that instant, the scene became a human sacrifice, the knight offered as tribute. A painting in crimson, a violent poem written by destiny across the battlefield.
Aser's body toppled like a collapsing ivory tower, his blood pouring like a ruby waterfall, dyeing Draxul's earth in the hues of fleeting glory. Each drop a word in the book of betrayal, each crimson spray a verse in the poem of vengeance.
The land beneath him trembled, as if mourning the fall of a cherished son. Even the wind fell silent, nature itself holding its breath in honor of a warrior who died for his principles.
To the frozen eyes of the soldiers, this was no mere fall of a knight—it was the death of loyalty itself, a dream of honor now impossible, a chapter of history closing to yield to another.
Aser's blood seeped into the cracks of the parched earth, ink writing a prophecy for Arcadia's future. A prophecy that the age of noble knights was gone—replaced by the age of rebels and conquerors.
A heavy silence… then Rossipov's sword lifted skyward, dripping blood like devil's dew. He roared, his voice tearing through the fog: "Behold! This is the blood of the Crown that waters our thirsty soil!"
The army surged like a ravenous tide, the earth groaning beneath the weight of betrayal and blood.
In Dreamcrown, the feast ended. Ellaria Vanthorp lifted the hem of her gown over the ruby-studded stairs of the Palace of Mirrors.
In Novaca, Boris counted the day's profits: "The spices sold for twice the price…"
In Blacksoul, Maria embraced her sleeping son Elio, whispering into the darkness: "He will return… he must return."
And in the field of Draxul, Rossipov walked over the blood of thousands, his heavy sword dragging a red line behind him. He looked westward, toward the blind capital, and whispered: "This blood… is the ink that will write our new history."
The wind carried with it the cries of the dead, the screams of the living, the silence of kings—all mingled in Arcadia's sky, golden only because it was the reflection of war's fire.
This was no mere scene… but a surreal painting of a kingdom devouring itself.
The Royal Palace – Outer Hall
Lucas Nightover stood beneath the covered colonnade, both hands resting on the cold marble balustrade as the wind slipped between the pillars, stirring the leaves of the gardens. His white hair swayed gracefully, like snowflakes slipping from the grasp of the breeze. In his blue eyes, the cloudy Arcadian sky was reflected—a mirror holding silent battles.
The quiet was broken by the sound of measured footsteps, their rhythm calm yet heavy. Lucas turned slightly, without looking directly, sensing the presence of King Irvin Luskarth, who approached slowly, his cane tapping lightly against the stone floor before stopping beside him.
They did not exchange words at once; silence ruled, as though they awaited the wind to speak first. Then, without lifting his gaze from the trees before him, Lucas spoke quietly, yet his voice carried a weight that filled the space:
Lucas: "I should be there now… in the heart of the battle."
Irvin tilted his head slightly, a faint, almost unseen smile touching his lips before he replied, his tone calm but firm.
Irvin: "I gain little from a dead deputy. Your presence here is worth more to me."
Lucas glanced at him briefly but gave no answer. They stood there, two men in the midst of a storm of change, each carrying a burden never meant to be shared.
The King remained beside the Duke, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the crimson sky deepened, as if heralding the dawn of a new chapter in events. The wind swirled through the air, carrying with it strands of thick smoke that blanketed the city, making the atmosphere all the more stifling.
Irvin drew a long breath, his voice low:
Irvin: "House Vanheim… they are here already."
Lucas did not answer at once. His gaze shifted slowly upward toward the sky. When he finally looked at the horizon, he saw the crimson spreading wider, tongues of smoke seeping through it, while the burning red bled further into the heavens.
At that moment, Lucas's features shifted briefly. He exhaled deeply, brows furrowed as he stared ahead.
Irvin: "I know you don't tolerate them much, but you must rise above that. The kingdom needs all of you."
Lucas hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words, then spoke with sharper tone.
Lucas: "My problem isn't with the whole family. There are some among them I see as promising… But Blatir. That man has overstepped his bounds for far too long. Every time his vile schemes are exposed, you cover for him instead of punishing him. He hasn't even sent a single shred of support for this war!"
Irvin cast him a sideways glance, his expression still carrying the hint of a hidden smile that never fully surfaced.
Irvin: "Regardless of his behavior, he is responsible for guarding the East. Perhaps he hasn't fought in the war, but he serves the kingdom every moment. Throughout his tenure, no threat has risen from the East, despite two kingdoms lurking behind those borders."
Lucas did not move, but his eyes narrowed slightly, as though what he was hearing wasn't nearly enough to convince him.
Lucas: "And do you really think he does that for the kingdom? Don't be naïve, Irvin. He is building his own empire there, securing himself a strong position for the day he decides to turn the tables on the throne."
He said it with bitterness, as if the words left his mouth like embers that scorched his tongue. He exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing like a man who had seen the end sketched out before him in old blood.
At these words, Irvin rose slowly, as though a weight had suddenly been lifted from his back. He turned his gaze to the royal garden stretching before him, but he saw neither trees nor flowers… only ruins collapsing, and a future teetering on the edge of an abyss. The chill wind brushed his brow, yet stirred nothing in him.
A heavy silence followed—not the kind that soothes, but the kind that makes it feel as though the city itself was holding its breath.
Then, in a voice low as the whisper of a dagger slipping beneath the ribs, he said:
Irvin: "Then tell me, Lucas… why does he seek the throne?"
Lucas shifted in silence. He did not turn, only cast him a fleeting sideways glance before fixing his eyes once more on the grim horizon. His lips remained sealed, but in his silence lay an answer—and in his eyes, a denial of all innocence.
Irvin: "Because of the law… the law of rule as it stands."
Lucas furrowed his brows, as though such a statement deserved nothing but suspicion, then snapped back sharply.
Lucas: "What? I don't understand… what does the law have to do with this?"
Irvin lifted his head slightly, as if his words carried a meaning deeper than their surface.
Irvin: "The current law of rule has reduced the throne to nothing more than an empty seat. At first it seemed a fair and strong system, but as the years passed… its presence began to mean nothing."
His tone was calm, but deep, carrying a weight that reached beyond political analysis. He wasn't speaking merely of governance, but of the human spirit—of the emptiness born from prolonged deprivation.
Irvin: "To live your whole life in service of a throne that will never be yours. To spend your years serving different kings, without even the right to aspire… What do you think that creates within them?"
Lucas kept staring ahead, but his voice sounded as if it were resisting a conviction that was slowly seeping into him.
Lucas: "So you think the answer is to return to the old system? That only the royal bloodline should choose the king? That sounds almost the same to me."
Irvin, clasping his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed on the horizon ignited with the crimson glow of the sky:
Irvin: "Perhaps it looks the same on the surface, but the difference lies not in form… but in the root. In the idea planted within the heart of the one who rules. When you know from childhood that the throne is yours, you grow with it, and its responsibility takes shape within you. The weight of the crown becomes part of your very spine.
But one who is granted rule by rotation, or seizes it thanks to a council or a vote, sees the throne as nothing but a prize—not a burden."
Lucas's eyes narrowed slightly, as though the thought touched something buried deep in his memory.
Lucas: "But we've seen princes born in palaces, raised without mercy or wisdom, simply because they believed the throne was their divine right. While those who fought their way to it learned the meaning of responsibility, because the road itself taught them."
Irvin's voice grew softer, yet heavy with ache.
Irvin: "You speak of battle as though it cleanses the soul. But what of the man who fights not to serve his people, but to soothe his own inadequacies? To make his voice heard in councils after years of being ignored? Battle does not create statesmen, Lucas—it creates rebels. And when a rebel sits upon the throne, he often continues to believe that everyone is against him… even his own people."
Lucas, in a softer voice, as hesitation began to seep into his tone like droplets falling into a still pond: "I understand what you mean… but returning to the bloodline, isn't that just another gamble? What if the next king is weak? Corrupt? Or simply… foolish?"
Irvin lowered his head for a moment, then raised it with a confident look, not devoid of pain: "Yes, it is a risk. But at least, under a hereditary system, we know whom to hold accountable. And now? Power is scattered, everyone claims to serve, and the throne between them is nothing but an empty chair. No one is questioned, no one is held responsible, because no one truly bears full responsibility."
He fell silent briefly, then continued in a lower, but more candid tone: "And that void… is what allows men like Blatir to move."
Lucas pressed his lips together, remaining silent for a long time before speaking in a voice tinged with despair: "It's as if we're trapped between two choices: rule enforced by blood, or rule inherited through blood. And in both cases, the blood never stops."
Irvin, with a sorrowful smile, almost a confession: "Perhaps… but at least within a bloodline, blood is spilled out of duty. Whereas today? It is spilled out of jealousy, negligence, ambition… or simple vengeance."
Irvin nodded slowly, his eyes shining not with certainty, but with resolve.
Irvin: "This way, the throne will regain its majesty. Allegiances to it will grow firmer."
Lucas smiled faintly with irony, but his eyes remained grave.
Lucas, his voice carrying a mix of irony and deep reflection, his gaze drifting into the horizon: "Let's say you're right… and that returning to inheritance is the solution. Very well, tell me, who will this king be? Where will you find a suitable ruler in such times?"
He paused for a moment, as if a thought had stirred something buried within him, before continuing in a heavier tone: "And even if one were found… a just king, resolute, with a living heart and a discerning mind… who guarantees that his descendants will be like him?"
He looked at Irvin with eyes that held the weight of a test, then added: "Will they be as great as the first kings of Arcadia? Or as degraded as the tenth? Does courage and justice pass on as blood does? That is the question, Irvin… the question that precedes the fall."
At these words, Irvin interrupted with a quiet but resolute voice.
Irvin: "My reign is nearing its end, Lucas."
At that moment, Lucas turned to him, staring long, not as if hearing something unexpected, but as if he had always known it—only he was not prepared to hear it spoken.
Irvin continued in the same calm tone, but this time more directly.
Irvin: "Do you truly wish for us to reestablish the royal trial… after my departure?"
Lucas did not answer. He averted his gaze, drowning in thought. He knew Irvin had carried this burden alone for years, yet the idea of it lifting from his shoulders was not as comforting as he had imagined.
After a heavy silence, Irvin spoke, his voice soft, yet cleaving the air like the edge of a blade.
Irvin: "I have already found the right person."
Lucas turned toward him, his brows rising slightly in surprise, before asking in a taut, low voice:
Lucas: "Who?"
Irvin did not answer immediately. Instead, he moved slowly, resting his hands upon the balustrade, gazing into the royal garden, as though the answer no longer belonged to him alone.
Then, with a smile barely visible, he spoke in a quiet voice that carried a thousand questions.
Irvin: "You will know at the next council. I have already sent a messenger to the Convere. He should return today."
Lucas Nightover stood leaning against the marble balustrade, his eyes lost in the expanse of the royal gardens before him. The cold breeze stirred his white hair, and the leaves of the trees swayed, as if they danced in silence to a melody unheard.
Beside him, King Irvin gazed into the horizon, his features still, yet bearing something hidden, like a heavy shadow beneath the surface of calm water. A long silence settled between them—not an absence of words, but the overpowering presence of something unspoken.
Then, in a low voice, as if he had not meant to be heard, Irvin spoke.
Irvin: "You know…"
Lucas glanced at him slowly from the corner of his eye, as if his instincts had sensed something unusual.
The king added, his voice hoarse, almost a confession.
Irvin: "Sometimes… I feel that I… wish for death."
At that moment, something strange flickered in Lucas's eyes. It was not surprise, nor shock, but a deep understanding—as if he had seen the shadow of this feeling before. As if these words were not foreign to his ears, but familiar… all too familiar.
He tightened his grip slowly on the marble railing, closing his eyes for a moment, as if recalling something distant, buried under layers of memory, yet unwilling to unearth it.
Then, with a voice that sounded almost like mockery, he broke the silence.
"Heh…"
He exhaled softly, then continued in a near whisper.
Lucas: "How many times…"
Irvin slowly raised his gaze from the horizon, as if the words had pulled him back from another world. In that instant, the clarity of his eyes returned, the haze that clouded them vanished. A faint smile appeared upon his lips—not one of joy, nor entirely of sorrow; more like the smile of one who had found an answer… but was uncertain if he wished to accept it.
He spoke in a quiet tone, yet one that carried a dark certainty.
Irvin: "Once… only once."
Then he moved, took hold of his cane, and turned away, closing his eyes as if unwilling to see anything further. As he drew near Lucas, he placed his hand on his shoulder, pressing lightly—a touch of farewell… or a silent confession needing no explanation.
He exhaled faintly, barely audible, then continued into the palace, leaving behind an unseen trace—yet heavy enough to linger.
As for Lucas, he remained standing, silent, staring into the emptiness before him. But this emptiness, this time, was no mere void… it was the reflection of a feeling he could not quite name, yet knew… dwelled deep within him.
He was about to leave, his heart weighed down with an indescribable heaviness. His steps dragged slowly toward the palace gate. But suddenly, he stopped. A strange sound reached him—faint at first, then swelling, filling the space like a torn scream. He tried to focus... It was a woman's cry, echoing through the corridors of the royal garden.
At that side of the garden stood a maid in her twenties, brown-haired and dark-eyed, screaming at the top of her lungs. She was at the edge of the colonnade, staring directly at one of the royal guards.
"I told you before!" she shouted, her voice trembling yet steady. "I do not love you! That night, I only asked for your help, and ever since you've been pursuing me! Please, leave me alone! Don't cause more trouble!"
But the guard showed no sign of retreat. He swayed unsteadily, like a drunkard. "You… deceived me! How dare you, filthy servant, deceive me… Me!!"
He took another step forward, fists clenched, eyes burning with rage.
The maid trembled, trying to back away in fear, but before she could escape, he seized her hair violently and yanked her toward him. Then he drew his sword, pressing it against her neck.
"I'll show you the price of your betrayal! You'll regret every moment!" he growled, tightening the blade against her skin.
At that moment, Lucas appeared, walking with steady steps. When the maid saw him, she cried out with all her strength:
"Duke Nightover! Please!!"
The guard shot her a sharp glance, then tightened his grip on her small finger, his eyes brimming with menace.
"D–don't come closer! This has nothing to do with you! I'll take this wretch with me, and you'll stay where you are until I'm gone!"
Lucas stood still, as if he hadn't heard him. He exhaled softly, then took two slow steps forward. His voice was steady: "The one you call a filthy servant… is the personal maid of Lady Isabel Windsord. She is no longer merely a servant, but an extension of her name."
He advanced another step, with a deadly calm, his tone cold, devoid of emotion: "And if a single hair falls from her head… no charge will be brought against you. No council convened. No excuse heard. There will only be silence… and your head will be raised upon a spear before your body ever touches the ground."
The guard flared with fury. "She tricked me! I'm the victim here, not her!!"
Lucas remained silent, fixing his gaze on him. Then, in a quiet voice, he said: "You're right… Just look at her face. She's smiling, mocking you, while she led you into this pitiful state."
Slowly, the guard's crazed eyes turned toward the maid's face, staring at it with madness…
In the blink of an eye, Lucas moved with impossible speed, as though time itself had stopped. Within a single second, he was at the guard's left side, leaving him no chance to react.
With a sudden, lightning movement, Lucas raised his left hand, seized the guard's face in his palm, and with crushing force, slammed him down onto the marble floor. The violent crash echoed through the place.
The guard collapsed, unconscious, blood seeping from his head. The sight was so shocking that the maid, still trembling, sank to the ground, gasping in terror.
Lucas slowly lifted his hand, then looked at the maid. Her eyes were wide with shock, trapped between awe and fear. He raised an eyebrow, offering her a faint smile, and spoke softly—his tone carrying reassurance.
Lucas: "Are you all right… my lady?"
She was panting heavily, as though every breath cost her twice the effort, her heart racing wildly, eyes brimming with bewilderment and confusion. Her words came broken, stammering as she tried to compose herself:
"Y… yes!… I'm fine… Your Grace, thank you so much…"
She quickly rose, taking a few steps back. But for a brief moment, she felt she must return. She turned to him, bowed gently, then hurried away.
Lucas remained standing, his eyes fixed on the guard lying sprawled on the floor. He muttered softly to himself, his voice dripping with contempt, as though speaking not to a man, but to a shell.
Lucas: "Those eyes… once burning with loyalty and pride—now hold nothing but dead emptiness. As if honor had long since abandoned them, leaving behind only a hollow husk… without will, without soul."
He sighed quietly, as though trying to breathe free of the weight of this broken world. Then he looked ahead, where the horizon was choked by heavy clouds—as though life itself had lost the strength to endure… leaving behind only emptiness, without chance… without hope.