Four years before the fall of Velmora's western provinces
The village of Ilfenmere clung to the edge of the Blackwood Forest like a secret whispered into the ear of the world.
Hidden beneath tangled canopy and mist-wreathed hills, its cobbled lanes twisted through old stones and crooked thatch, lit by braziers burning herbal incense meant to ward off spirits, though no one could agree whether the spirits were real or not. It was a place untouched by the plague of politics, where war drums were still just stories and kings were names spoken with a kind of fairy-tale awe.
For Queen Serenya Virelion, it was the closest thing left to peace.
She hadn't worn her crown in days. Her hair, usually coiled and pinned in courtly braids, now fell in a loose raven curtain over her shoulders, silver threads catching the spring sun. Her royal armor had been left behind for a high-necked travel cloak and a homespun gown dyed forest green. Still, no garb could hide her bearing.
She stood tall, shoulders poised like someone always ready to draw a blade, not because she wanted to fight, but because the world so often gave her no choice.
And beside her ran Kael.
He galloped through the crowds of the spring festival like a little beast untamed, a wildflower crown bouncing off his tangled hair, face sticky with fruit syrup and joy. He had none of the careful posture of the court-bred. He didn't need it, not here. Not today. His laughter cut through the air like birdsong.
Serenya let herself smile.
This was his name day, after all. Four years to the day since he was born beneath a comet-lit sky during a siege that had killed three of his older siblings. Four years since she'd held a squalling, blood-drenched infant and whispered to the gods, if you must take one more, take me instead.
They hadn't taken either of them. Not yet.
A juggler spun enchanted lanterns that hovered midair. A drunk bard sang a tale about werewolves falling in love with elven witches, badly. A troll-blood merchant argued over the price of pickled cave lilies while two children played tag between his ankles.
Everywhere, there was life.
Heat.
Color.
Normalcy.
And for a few hours, it reached even the Queen of Velmora.
"Try the sweetroot," Kael shouted, holding up a glazed pastry almost larger than his head. "It's like fire and honey and, and it makes your tongue dance!"
Serenya raised an eyebrow. "Does it now?"
Kael nodded vigorously. "The baker said it's old troll magic!"
"That baker's full of piss and rumors," called a gray-haired woman nearby, scrubbing potatoes. "Trolls don't use sugar. They boil their tongues in vinegar and call it seasoning."
Kael made a face, then took another enormous bite.
Serenya gave the woman a grateful nod. The old ones didn't care that she was a queen. They'd seen a dozen monarchs rise and fall. They didn't kneel, they simply tolerated. It was oddly comforting.
"Mama," Kael said through a mouthful of pastry, "are we gonna live here forever?"
She crouched to his level, brushing crumbs from his chin. "No, my heart. This is just a day for us."
"But why not more?"
She paused, unsure how much he could understand.
"Because people want things from queens," she said at last. "And they don't stop asking."
Kael frowned. "Do I have to be a king?"
Serenya blinked. That question hit like a blade between ribs.
"No," she whispered. "You only have to be Kael. Nothing more."
His smile returned, brighter than the sun, and he ran off toward a fire-breather juggling orbs of flame.
But her smile didn't follow. She looked to the woods beyond the village, to the jagged silhouettes of the trees and the long shadows gathering beneath them.
For just a moment, her heart clenched.
Something was wrong.
She felt it not in any spell or prophecy, but in her blood. The way animals pause before a storm. The way silence feels before the breaking of a bone.
It had been too quiet in the morning.
The ravens that normally watched the forest paths had vanished. The dogs in the village had refused to howl at the moon.
And the people here, though warm, though generous, kept looking at her, like they knew this was goodbye.
The sun crept lower, casting long fingers of amber light across Ilfenmere's crooked rooftops. Smoke curled from lanterns as the festival waned. Shadows grew thick in alleyways and under the eaves of trees, but no one left.
Not yet.
They lingered, farmers, travelers, and hawk-eyed merchants from the edge of the Stormlands, drawn to the rare warmth of something good.
Kael was halfway through a third pastry and eyeing a fourth when the music shifted.
The lute's tune faltered. A drum missed its beat. The dancer in the town square hesitated, as if she'd forgotten her steps mid-spin.
The crowd stilled.
Serenya turned toward the edge of the festival, toward the tree line, where the wind blew cold and sour through the pine. Her hand found the hilt of her dagger beneath her cloak. No one else moved. No one else even seemed to notice.
But the birds had stopped singing.
And Kael, that creature of sunshine and sugar, suddenly turned toward her with wide, confused eyes. "Mama?"
She was beside him in an instant, lifting him easily into her arms. He squirmed, "I'm not a baby anymore!", but didn't push too hard. He could feel the tension in her shoulders, the stiffness in her spine. Something had shifted in her face. The softness had retreated. She wore the look she had when speaking to war councils—stone-veined, iron-eyed.
She handed a silver coin to a nearby farmer and pointed to their wagon. "Your horse. I need it."
The man opened his mouth to protest, saw who she was, and wisely shut it.
"Now," she added.
Kael clung to her. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No, Kael. You did everything right."
"But why are we leaving?"
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Not yet.
They rode out of Ilfenmere on a commandeered cart, escorted by only two guards, Sir Aldryn and Dame Keira, both clearly agitated, both too polite to demand an explanation in front of the prince. The rest of the Queen's Guard had been stationed at the edge of the village for discretion's sake, but now she cursed herself for the choice.
The cart rolled along a dirt path flanked by ancient trees, their branches forming a canopy overhead. Evening fell thick as wine. The road back to the royal camp was three hours away if they hurried. The capital lay a day beyond that. But the deeper they rode, the more the forest began to close in like a mouth.
Serenya scanned the woods with sharp eyes, her free hand resting on her son's back. She could smell it now, the faintest coppery tang of blood. Not fresh, but not old either. Animal, maybe. But it set her teeth on edge.
"Mama," Kael whispered. "You're squeezing me."
She loosened her grip immediately, kissed his head. "Forgive me, my love."
He was too young to know that every queen eventually came to understand what it meant to live in dread of their own blood being spilled, not for what it meant to them, but for what it meant to the realm. And yet even with that dread, Serenya would've gladly traded her life a thousand times over to let her son live a quiet, unnoticed life far from crowns, far from thrones, far from the yawning black hole of politics.
But fate does not bargain.
It takes.
The wind shifted again.
Sir Aldryn raised a fist, signaling a halt.
He dismounted wordlessly, crouched, and touched something in the dirt. He looked back at her, face pale beneath his beard.
"Warding glyphs," he muttered. "Drawn in the road."
Her blood turned to ice. "Spell markers?"
"Circles. Binding shapes. There's more further up."
She climbed down, setting Kael back in the cart. "Keep him here," she told Keira. "Do not let him leave your sight."
The knight nodded.
Aldryn gestured to the trees. "Your Majesty, we should turn back."
"No," she said. "We press forward. I want to see who had the gall to draw blood-runes on a royal road."
The next few hundred feet felt endless.
She and Aldryn walked beside the cart as it rolled slowly onward. The road grew less familiar. More…hungry. The trees no longer looked like trees. They were too still. Their branches stretched not with nature's randomness, but with purpose, arched toward the center of the road like fingers drawn in prayer or supplication.
Kael peeked through the cart's side slats.
"Why are the trees looking at us?" he whispered to Keira.
She gave no answer.
Because she didn't know.
Because they were.
Then they found the horse.
It hung from a branch, neck twisted, entrails dangling like streamers. Its eyes were wide, mouth open in a silent scream, tongue cut out. Beneath it were scorch marks in the dirt, arcane sigils burned into the soil, some still glowing faintly with residual power. The air reeked of ozone, blood, and black myrrh.
Kael began to cry.
Serenya pulled him into her arms before he could scream. "Shhh. Shhh, my love. Do not look. Do not look."
But it was too late.
The image was burned into his mind.
As if summoned by his tears, the forest itself began to groan, wood bending unnaturally, sap hissing, a sound like bones grinding together. And then, voices.
Whispers.
Just beyond the veil of trees.
A low chant in an old, corrupted tongue. Ancient spellscript not spoken by any Collegium-trained mage, but by zealots who worshipped the Unshaped Ones. Forgotten gods. Old blood magic.
Aldryn swore and drew steel. "We're surrounded."
Serenya lifted Kael into the cart. "Ride. Now. Ride fast."
Keira lashed the reins, and the horse obeyed, but it was too late.
Figures stepped from the trees. Hooded.
Painted in glyphs.
Their eyes glowed violet with madness and magic. Some floated. Some dragged jagged blades behind them. Some were children. All of them smiled.
And from deeper within the woods came a howl, not of beast, but of something once-human and long since abandoned.
The Queen drew her sword and it ignited with silver fire.