Dreamcrown – Royal Palace Courtyard
Ser Darren stood in silence, at the end of a long road shrouded in mist and pain, before the Royal Palace. The cold walls reflected the glow of the setting sun, and the air was thick with the scent of ancient stones and dust, as if the place itself breathed a history yet un-erased.
He looked at the palace, not merely as a structure of stone, but as a symbol of all he had lived through, of every broken promise, of every dream left unfinished. He drew a deep breath, a mingling of sorrow and relief pressing against his chest, and then murmured words barely carried by the wind.
Darren: "I have lived forty years… and yet… why do I feel I have lived only thirty days…"
Silence responded, silent as if the entire world had paused to witness his grief. His eyes roamed over the details of the palace, every window, every tower, every shadow concealing a story no one had heard. A strange sense of time; years had passed, yet they felt like fleeting moments, like a dream unresolved.
Then, with a calm yet decisive motion, he drew his sword from its sheath, Blood-Oath, the blade that had witnessed battles, that had witnessed blood and dreams lost along the way. He cast it onto the ground before the palace, the sound of iron striking stone ringing like an echo of long loss, an announcement that the era of war had ended, and that, in some way, he had chosen to leave the past behind.
He gazed at it for a moment, then turned and walked away. His steps were calm, measured, yet heavy with memories. With each step, he left a part of himself behind, and departed. No screams, no tears, only departure… and the air that filled the space with a new void, a void that knew something had ended, and something else had yet to begin.
Dreamcrown – After a week – The Royal Palace – Inside the Throne Hall
The throne hall was like a hollow skull. The silence within was not the absence of sound, but the heavy presence of a vast emptiness, pressing against the inner ear of anyone who dared step inside. Towering marble pillars rose toward the shadowed ceiling like ghosts groaning beneath the weight of a history carved from blood and gold.
And at the heart of this vast space, stood Ser Variss—alone. He wore simple armor, yet his stance bore the burden of a man carrying a kingdom on his shoulders. His eyes were fixed upon the raised dais… where the throne once stood.
Or where it should have been.
Now, there was only a barren pedestal, a hollow reminder of years of lost glory. Remnants of gilded dust and shattered gemstones scattered on the floor gleamed like dead stars fallen from a torn sky.
He had once dreamed a royal dream of a united realm, the dream of an honorable man who believed in service and loyalty. But that dream had vanished like smoke in a single night, leaving nothing but the taste of ash in history's mouth. The kingdom now teetered at the edge of the abyss, and chaos was not knocking at the doors—it was breaking them down.
He remained standing like a statue carved from grief and awe, staring at nothing. At the void left behind by the absence of the symbol. At the power that had evaporated, a mirage slipping through his grasp.
Then… he heard a sound.
It was not loud. A faint creak, damp and suffocating, like a rope of silk heavy with dew tightening around the neck of a ripe fruit. It was followed by another sound… the drip of liquid scattering across marble, steady and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of a dying man.
He turned his head slowly—so slowly it felt as if the entire world balanced upon the edge of a blade, and any sudden movement would cast it into ruin. He clung desperately to one final illusion—the illusion that order still existed, that the world still made sense.
And then he saw.
It was not merely a body. It was prophecy, incarnate in flesh and blood, unraveling before his eyes. The body of Ser Aven Stumford dangled in the cold air, swaying like a death knell itself. He did not resemble a broken doll but rather a divine warning, a sacrifice laid upon the altar of power. His eyes, wide open, were frozen in one last moment of shock. And the blood… it was not just blood. It was black ink writing a new chapter of tragedy across the white marble, each drop a confession of collective guilt, each crimson imprint painting a silent tableau of dread.
Variss did not scream. His silence was not a choice—it was an existential deafness that consumed him. The rope tightening around Aven's neck was not made of hemp, but of betrayal, of despair, of staring into the abyss and realizing he had been walking toward it all his life. He felt the same invisible noose coiling around his own throat, pressing with that same measured rhythm, reminding him that the only difference between himself and Aven was a few steps… and a few moments.
Yet his legs moved on their own. He stumbled toward the balcony, his footsteps echoing through the empty hall like the laughter of ghosts mocking his naivety. Deep within, he knew it was a trap. But he had to see. He had to be sure.
And as he neared, he lifted his gaze upward.
There… upon the edge of the ceiling where shadow met shadow, she stood.
Ariana Nightover.
She was not merely standing—she was fused with the darkness, as if she were vengeance itself incarnate. The pale moonlight behind her revealed only her outline, transforming her into a mythic figure. Her icy eyes did not reflect the moonlight but consumed it, releasing it as two lethal glimmers that pierced straight into his heart. Her silvery hair cascaded like a waterfall of mercury into the night, shimmering with an otherworldly glow. Yet the left side of her face was drowned in deeper shadow, where the burns—like maps of a personal hell—made her something incomplete, beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Variss' eyes widened, not with fear, but with the stunned bewilderment of one trying to comprehend a nightmare while fully awake. This was not ordinary terror—it was an existential shock at the sight of something that defied belief. He was staring at a specter, at a legend given flesh, blood, and hatred.
It was not the transformation of myth into reality he witnessed, but the collapse of the barrier between the world of the living and the dead. She stood before him as a creature of shadows past, bearing in her glacial gaze the cold of graves, in her silence the weight of a thousand unanswered questions.
He whispered her name, his voice trembling between doubt and certainty, between hope and despair: "…Ariana…?"
The name trembled in the air like a final prayer, like a desperate incantation to banish the demon of memory. Her eyes narrowed slightly, as though the sound of her name was another blade plunged into her scarred flesh. Variss turned instinctively, a drowning man searching for any lifeline, and shouted: "Guards! To me! Guards, now!"
But his cry shattered uselessly against the solemn walls, a cry lost in the desert of memory.
There were no guards. There was no one.
The realization struck too late, as though the ground itself had shifted beneath him—that the palace was no longer a fortress of monarchy, but a mausoleum whose story would be told to generations.
It had become nothing more than an empty husk of marble and gold, groaning under the weight of a merciless silence. Every throne without its king becomes a tomb for ambition, every crown an echo of forgotten power, every symbol eventually a whispered legend in the corridors of oblivion.
When he looked back up—she was gone. Only shadow and forgetting remained. She had vanished, as if she had been nothing more than a conjuration of the night.
And Variss remained—alone in the vast throne hall. Not merely a man in an empty hall, but a fragment of the silence itself. Under the eternal gaze of the marble columns that stood as witnesses to the tides of power, he felt the full weight of history crashing upon him.
The pillars were not mere stone—they were the kingdom's memory, holding within their veins the whispers of crowned kings, the footsteps of hidden rebels, the blood of traitors who had fallen upon that very ground. Each carving in the marble was a line in the saga of glory and decay.
He felt their gaze upon him—not accusatory, but mournful. As though they knew their role as guardians of power had ended, and that they, too, would become nothing more than cold stone in a tale misremembered with time.
In that solemn solitude, he understood that the fall of the kingdom was no mere event—it was a turning point in the fate of an entire civilization. And that he, now, was not only a witness to its end but the lone bridge between a storied past and an uncertain future.
And the most painful question lingered:
"Was the kingdom's fall truly a defeat… or was it a necessity, for something new to be born from the ruins? Perhaps… a new fear."
Frostenov – Behind the Everwinter Palace
There, in the northern realm where snow devours the earth and the wind howls like a starving beast, Raymond Vanheim before the grave of a comrade who would speak no more.
Behind him loomed the towering silhouette of the Everwinter Palace, its spires crowned with frost, its walls heavy with centuries of ice. The moonlight bled across the frozen stone, turning the palace into a monument of silence and endurance.
Around him, the world was white and endless. Snow fell in hushed veils, soft yet relentless, erasing all tracks of the living. The trees that bordered the palace grounds stood like skeletal sentinels, their branches glazed with silver frost, groaning under the weight of winter's breath. Each gust of wind carried shards of ice that cut against the skin like tiny blades, whispering the eternal hymn of the north.
Raymond's breath curled into the night air, fleeting ghosts dissolving against the darkness. His fingers were stiff within his gloves, yet he pressed them firmly against the cold stone that marked his fallen brother-in-arms.
No warmth, no echo of life—only the weight of silence.
Here, behind the Everwinter Palace, it felt as though time itself had frozen, leaving him alone with grief, with memory, and with the endless winter.
His name was carefully etched into the blue stone, shimmering under the dim light. "Aqua Nightover." He sat there as if time had swallowed everything around him.
His hand trembled as he grasped a handful of dirt from the grave. A faint scowl formed on his lips, his expression an entanglement of pain and anger. His heart burned as he recalled those moments, as if everything had slipped through his fingers.
Raymond sat in silence, staring at the name carved into the stone, as if making sure that, this time, its owner would not answer. He exhaled slowly before speaking, his voice quiet but sharp.
Raymond: "You fool..."
He spoke softly, lost in the emptiness left behind by the war he had fought, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Tears welled in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Even pain itself screamed within him, yet there was no escape. For the first time, he understood that everything he had endured had been nothing but an illusion. That the end had begun the moment he chose to walk this dark path.
He continued staring at the engraved name, as if looking at it long enough might bring him back, even for a second. His fingers traced the cold letters before he whispered, barely audible.
Raymond: "I found a girl I like... We're getting married soon."
A short laugh escaped him... hollow, laced with something heavy, gnawing at his chest from the inside.
Raymond: "Can you believe that? Me, searching for something that resembles life after all this ruin."
He paused, leaning forward slightly, as if the weight of his own words had become unbearable.
Raymond: "I wish you were here..."
His jaw tightened, as though he was forcing himself not to break. Then, in a hoarse whisper, barely escaping his throat, he muttered:
Raymond: "You would've mocked me, wouldn't you? How could someone like me find happiness in the end?"
A long silence followed, broken only by the cold wind, carrying the dust of the past and scattering it over the grave. Raymond finally lifted his head, his eyes drowning in something that was not tears, but a silent, unspoken agony.
Raymond: "You know... I always told you this would happen. That you'd end up buried in the dirt before you ever realized what you were fighting for."
He kicked a small stone beside him, folding his arms as he gazed into the endless darkness before him.
Raymond: "And now? Did you find what you were looking for there? Or did you leave this world the same way you lived... blindly chasing a dream that never had meaning?"
His fingers traced the engraved letters once more, his voice laced with bitter sarcasm.
Raymond: "At least you have a peace I'll never know. No more fighting. No more wondering if all of this was worth it. Your story is over... But me? I'm still trapped in this hell."
He stared at the grave for a final moment before turning away, his steps firm, as if nothing could stop him. As if pain had never been a part of him.
And amidst the chaos, Raymond moved slowly, his steps heavy but resolute. When Talia called out to him, her voice carried something different... not a command, but a question that reached deep into the soul.
When Raymond stood, his movements were sluggish, as if a great weight bore down upon him. He walked toward his horse, standing near the cliff's edge, where Talia waited in silent anticipation. Her eyes reflected a quiet uncertainty. As he mounted his horse, she spoke in a soft voice, tinged with bitter hesitation.
Talia: "Raymond..."
Her words were not just a question. They were a plea, as if she was asking him to face what he had been trying to ignore.
Talia: "Have you made your decision?"
Raymond hesitated for a brief moment, letting silence reign over him. His eyes were lost in deep thought, as if measuring the vastness of the world before him. Then, as if everything around him had faded away, he spoke.
Raymond: "There's nothing left for me in this kingdom."
He added, his eyes hiding a confusion his words had never admitted before.
Raymond: "The rival I longed to fight every day, the one I wanted to surpass... is gone."
Then, he lifted his gaze toward the distant horizon, where the sun had begun to set, as though time itself had started to lose meaning. His soul had drifted far from this place, tired of sacrifices without purpose. He whispered, his words soft yet filled with uncertainty.
Raymond: "So, I will leave… Maybe I'll find something worth drawing my sword for."
Without another glance, Raymond turned, climbed onto his horse, and vanished. He rode swiftly, as if fleeing from something greater than any decision or doubt within himself. Behind him, he left a dying kingdom... one that had never truly formed. He left behind memories, carried away by the wind, fading like illusions that had only ever existed in the hearts of the weary.
The Lands of Dunmer – In Forestell Town – Inside a Tavern
The night hung heavy over the distant lands, where shadows did not ask for names, and secrets were buried in the streets before they could be spoken.
Inside a dimly lit tavern, Raymond sat on a wooden chair, leaning against the table before him, gazing at the surface of his glass. The faint glow of the lanterns reflected in the liquid inside, their flickering light casting restless shapes. The air was thick with the scent of ale and the smoke of burning hearths, the hum of conversation filling the space. Yet he listened to none of it.
He seemed to be searching for something... or perhaps running from something.
Then, amidst the usual noise, a strange melody drifted through the air, slicing through the silence like a thread of darkness. Deep voices began to hum slowly, as if summoning a ghost from the past.
"Oh, did you hear the howling call,
When silence claimed the crimson hall?
Did you see the burning light,
That drowned the throne in endless night?"
Raymond lifted his gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as if his inner thoughts had halted for a brief moment. He slowly turned toward the other side of the tavern.
There, near the hearth, sat a group of men, their faces half-drowned in shadows, their cups raised as they sang slowly... like they were recounting a curse that time had failed to erase. Their voices carried a blend of longing and sorrow, as if they were speaking of a story they all knew… yet dared not name outright.
The words continued, the other sounds in the tavern fading away, as if the entire place had unconsciously begun to listen. And with each line, something deep inside Raymond trembled.
"The gates did crack, the towers fell,
The walls bore witness, they knew too well.
A phantom walked with death in hand,
And none who stood were left to stand."
Raymond, without realizing it, clenched his cup tightly. A cold shiver ran down his spine.
This wasn't just a song.
It was… a memory.
"Oh, royal blood, so rich, so deep,
Spilled like rivers, left to weep.
The sword was swift, the fire blind,
No crown could fate's cold hand unbind."
The men sang indifferently, but their words were like daggers carving into Raymond's memory.
"He stood before the tyrant's throne,
A king unbowed, yet all alone.
'Come forth, strike hard!' the ruler cried,
But none were left to stand beside.
A single thrust, a fatal breath,
A kingdom drowned beneath its death.
The sovereign fell, his whispers ceased,
His reign unmade, his ghosts released.
Yet where is he... the storm, the shade?
The hunter lost in blood's cascade?
There on the throne, still and pale,
A fleeting ghost, a final tale."
One of the men stood up, raised his glass with a faint smile and said in a voice that almost sounded mocking,
"To the Dance of the Devil!"
The others lifted their glasses, the glasses clinking together, while the echo of the words resonated through the tavern like an ancient incantation.
Raymond rose slowly, his steps heavy as if they carried the echoes of the story they were telling. He approached the waitress who was wiping one of the old tables. She didn't look up when he asked.
He asked her in a low voice, yet weighed down by something deeper than curiosity.
Raymond: "What is this song?"
She didn't look at him, just wiped the table indifferently and responded in a faint voice.
"Didn't you hear about it? ... That night at the royal palace?"
She paused for a moment, then finally looked at him, her gaze carrying something between fear and respect, before she whispered.
"They're singing about it... they called that night..."
'Devil Dance.'
His hand froze for a moment. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. He simply closed his eyes for a moment, as if the weight of the words was heavier than he let on.
Then he turned, walking towards the door, leaving behind the tavern and the past that never stopped chasing him.
In the background, the voices continued their song, and the shadows on the walls seemed to move with the melody.
"A wind that fades into nothing,
as if the world itself dares not recall...
No crown remains, no kingdom stands,
Only dust upon the shattered lands.
And the palace lingers... cold and black,
As if it never had a past."
Raymond left the tavern, but he didn't leave the melody. He didn't leave the night.
Arcadia continued to rule with an iron grip, torn by the three families whose actions left behind consequences not fully realized yet. Over time, both the common folk and the nobles began to adapt to the new system. The transformation wasn't swift; it was gradual, like a river changing its course in silence. Life began to revolve around new rules, yet there was only silence behind the faces that hid disappointments and pains that could not be spoken of.
However, even with the beginning of this reign, cracks appeared in the foundations of this new kingdom. Fear wound itself around hearts, and doubts crept into minds. Everything had changed, but what had changed wasn't just the system... it was the very soul. Deep within them all, there was a feeling that something had been lost forever, and that the consequences that had been covered up would continue to haunt them in the shadows surrounding their new kingdom.
Then came the year 1961, bringing with it an unexpected phenomenon in the course of humanity. A meteor streaked across the sky in brilliant lights, like a beam of light passing through the universe, followed by a thunderous roar that shook the horizon. The sky itself revealed strange colors that the Earth had never seen before, a magical scene no one could have predicted.
When the meteor fell in the Kingdom of Arcadia, a huge explosion of light occurred, as if a radiant wave swept the Earth, covering an area of 8.9 million square kilometers, spreading with full force. This light wasn't just a glow; it was as though it was a signal from the heavens themselves, launched by nature, the universe, or perhaps a blind fate no one could explain. The wave was swift and adorned with amazing colors, like a mirror reflecting the infinite vastness of the universe, shimmering and pulsing with life. Despite its tremendous intensity, it caused no harm to the environment or the land. It was like a massive barrier of light, filtering through the air and engulfing it in eerie silence.
But what was most extraordinary was the effect this wave had on the children born in that pivotal moment. This wasn't just a natural event; it was a turning point in history itself. The light seemed to penetrate them, adding something invisible, something from fate itself. These children, born with the end of that glow, began to show incomprehensible powers. They had no explanation for what had happened to them, but they carried within them extraordinary abilities that set them apart from all other humans.
After the light disappeared, these children became extraordinary beings unlike any other, yet at the same time, they became a deep mystery. The world around them began to try to decode this strange phenomenon. Who were these children? How did they gain these powers? What had happened to the world after witnessing this event?
As society pondered in silence, fear and hesitation began to emerge, as if the change was too great for them to fully comprehend. These children were dubbed "Sons of Light." This name referred to the mysterious blessing they carried, but at the same time, it stirred fear, as if it was a sign of something beyond explanation.
Scientists, politicians, and even ordinary people became preoccupied with interpreting this phenomenon. It was no longer just curiosity; it became a struggle for control over this massive shift in the nature of humanity. As for the children, they were merely prey to suspicion and fear, surrounded by wary gazes, as they learned to live with abilities they never asked for.
As time passed, these children became not just subjects of scientific research, but symbols of a new era. An era in which the boundaries of the familiar were shattered, and new doors to mystery and knowledge were opened. The history of humanity had entered a new phase, one filled with questions that would not find answers anytime soon, yet would continue to haunt everyone.