The Black Forest groaned under the weight of mist and silence, its ancient pines rising like pillars in a cathedral of shadows. Lanterns burned low among the makeshift encampment of the revolutionaries, their fires carefully muffled so that no distant scout might see the glow. Weapons clattered softly as men and women sharpened blades, checked crossbows, and whispered prayers to nameless gods. The heart of the rebellion pulsed here, hidden where no imperial rider dared to tread.
In the largest clearing, a rough map lay spread across a warped oak table. Around it, the core commanders of the revolution bent their heads. Arthur stood at the head of the table, cloak brushing the earth, golden-red eyes reflecting the flame of the lantern.
Otto Hightower, ever the cautious one, leaned forward. His voice broke the tense silence."Are you certain about this, Commander? Once we strike, the hounds of seven nations will come for us. Their armies will not rest until your name is carved into ash and blood."
Arthur did not answer at first. He traced a finger across the map, following the winding river that bled into the capital's gates. His jaw tightened, then he looked up."I know, Otto. I know exactly what storm I am calling upon us."
Otto's brow furrowed. "Then why? Why risk annihilation? We could bide our time, grow stronger, bleed them slowly from the edges. Instead, you want to throw open the gates of war."
Arthur's lips curled into the faintest ghost of a smile. "Because there is something in the last chambers beneath their halls. Something the Targerynas guard with more zeal than their crown. They fear it, Otto. And if they fear it, then I must have it."
The other commanders stirred uneasily. One spat into the dirt. Another made the warding sign on his chest. Otto slammed a fist against the table."You'll have the Targerynas, the Emperor, and every vassal king hunting you across the continent. Even victory may damn us all!"
Arthur leaned forward, voice low, steady, commanding."Let them come. Armies are mortal. Dynasties crumble. But what lies in that chamber will outlast all their banners. I will take it, and with it, the revolution will not simply burn for a generation—it will blaze for centuries. Even when my bones turn to dust, the fire I kindle here will consume thrones and empires."
Silence fell. Only the crackle of the campfires and the rustle of the black pines broke it. Otto's eyes searched Arthur's, desperate for hesitation, for doubt—yet found only the glint of iron resolve.
Finally, Otto exhaled, shoulders sagging. "Then… so be it. We will ready the men. But remember this, Commander: if we march into the maw of every crown and sigil in the land, there will be no turning back."
Arthur straightened, his cloak sweeping the earth as he turned from the table."There never was, Otto."
The revolutionaries exchanged glances—half in fear, half in awe—as the night closed in around them, the Black Forest watching like a witness to history.
The landing platform of the fortress was drenched in the crimson hue of twilight. The banners of the Dragon Knights swayed gently in the cold wind, the sigil of the coiled dragon catching the dying sun. Torchlight sputtered along the stone walls, their glow painting the armored figures gathered around Daemon in fiery shades.
A knight clad in obsidian steel approached, his visor lifted, sweat gleaming on his brow from the long ride. He dropped to one knee, holding out a sealed scroll, but his words came faster than his breath.
"My lord," he said, chest heaving, "the message was delivered. The order to open Gate 771 in the north has been received. The gatekeepers suspect nothing. At midnight, the gates will swing wide, and the path shall be ours."
Daemon turned his head slowly, golden-red eyes burning like embers behind the shadows of his hood. His cloak billowed in the wind, heavy with the weight of command. He let the silence hang, a silence that pressed down on every knight present, until the messenger trembled.
At last, Daemon's lips curled into a smile—sharp, predatory.
"So," he murmured, voice low, smooth, yet carrying the weight of thunder. "The north sleeps blind while their traitors gnaw at the Empire's bones. They think themselves clever… Arthur and his rabble. But they forget… wolves hunt in the dark."
A chorus of armored boots struck the stone as the Dragon Knights around him knelt, fists to their chests, their blackened plate shimmering faintly under the torchlight. Daemon stepped forward, his cloak dragging across the landing's stone floor, his voice rising, cutting into the wind.
"My wolves!" he thundered. "Tonight, the gates open not to welcome us… but to doom those who betrayed this Empire! Revolutionaries who bite the hand of their king… who poison the air with their false cries of freedom… who dare to raise banners against me!"
His words echoed through the air, carried across the courtyard where more knights stood at attention, each of them seasoned men and women who bore scars of dragon fire and battlefield steel. The air grew taut with anticipation.
Daemon raised his hand.
"Tell me, Dragon Knights—are you ready for blood? Are you ready for the hunt?"
From every throat came a roar, primal and thunderous, echoing against the mountains. They did not shout words. They howled—howled like the beasts of the night, like wolves thirsting for the throat of prey. The sound shook the stones beneath them.
Daemon's smile widened.
"Yes… my wolves hunger." He turned to the messenger knight still kneeling before him. "And when midnight strikes, the wolves shall feed."
The knight bowed his head, relief flooding his features at being spared the sting of Daemon's wrath.
But Daemon was not done. He descended the steps of the landing, each stride heavy, deliberate. He spoke not to one, but to all.
"Arthur thinks his revolution will ignite the people. He believes the rabble will rise behind him. He believes he can smother me in the shadows he hides in. But he forgets one thing—" Daemon's voice sharpened like steel drawn from the scabbard, "—I do not wait in shadows. I am the flame that burns shadows away."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the crackle of torches. Then, Daemon threw his head back, cloak swirling, and cried:
"Tonight, the dragon descends. Tonight, the wolves feast. Tonight, the revolution ends in fire and ash!"
The knights slammed their fists against their breastplates in unison, the sound rolling like thunder.
One of the elder knights, his face half-hidden by a dragon-etched helm, stepped forward. His voice was gravelly, aged, yet strong.
"My lord, what of the redgold-eyed boy himself? Shall he be slain with the rabble, or do you wish him taken alive?"
Daemon's gaze darkened, his smile vanishing. He spoke slowly, each word edged with venom.
"That boy…" He spat the name as if it were poison. "No blade is to kill him. No fire is to touch him. He is mine." His eyes gleamed with murderous promise. "When the revolution burns, and his dream turns to ash before him, I will drag him from the ruins. I will strip him of his pride. And before all the men he misled, before every soul that dared call him their savior, I will break him."
A hush fell. The knights lowered their heads, as though in reverence to the cruelty of the vow.
Another knight broke the silence, his voice young, fervent: "Then so it shall be, sire! The rabble will bleed, the false banners will fall, and the traitor will crawl to your feet!"
Daemon's hand shot up, and the knight silenced himself instantly.
"No," Daemon said coldly. "He will not crawl. He will kneel." He let the word linger, heavy with meaning. "And when he kneels, I will make him beg me to end his miserable life."
A ripple of dark approval ran through the ranks of the Dragon Knights.
Daemon lifted his hand once more. The torchlight flickered in his eyes, which burned with a fury that no man could withstand.
"My wolves… sharpen your blades, steel your hearts, and silence your mercy. By dawn, the world shall know—the dragon has awoken."
And as the bells of the fortress tower tolled the coming of night, the Dragon Knights raised their weapons to the sky, their howls echoing into the cold heavens, a dreadful omen of the carnage to come.
The midnight bell tolled across the sleeping capital, a hollow, mournful sound that echoed through the stone corridors of the city's eastern walls. Beneath the wavering torchlight, the iron gates—gates that had not been unbarred for generations—groaned and shuddered as ancient gears turned. The Watch had been stationed here for years, sworn to guard them, sworn to never let them open. Yet tonight, under the seal of the three-headed dragon of the royal family, the order had come.
The captain of the Night's Watch stood stiffly, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eyes narrowed as the massive iron doors split apart with a slow, agonizing moan. Fog from the Black Forest drifted inward, spilling over the stones like pale, ghostly fingers.
"Captain…" whispered one of the younger soldiers, clutching his spear so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "Is it right for us to let this happen? These gates were sealed by oath, guarded by our fathers and forefathers. Why break them now?"
The captain did not answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the crack widening before them, the forest's dark heart waiting beyond like the maw of some slumbering beast. Finally, he spoke, voice low and heavy.
"It is not right. But it is the law. And law comes sealed with the three-headed dragon. The order was signed by the blood of kings. To disobey is treason."
Another soldier spat to the ground, eyes fierce. "Law or no law, Captain, you know as well as I that nothing holy comes from that forest. The moment the gates are opened, we invite devils into our very streets."
A silence fell. Even the wind seemed to hush. From beyond the threshold, vague shapes began to stir. Shadows of men—or things in the shape of men—moved through the mist. Cloaked figures, silent and unhurried, slipping from the darkness of the Black Forest into the world of men. Their torches did not burn with flame, but with strange pale light, as though lit by the bones of the dead.
The younger soldier's breath caught in his throat. "God preserve us… Captain, who are they?"
The captain's jaw clenched. He felt the weight of his men's eyes on him, searching for answers he could not give. His hand tightened on his sword hilt, though he dared not draw.
"They are what the crown has chosen," he said at last. His voice wavered, almost breaking. "And may God save the people from what follows."
One of the cloaked figures turned its head toward the wall, as though sensing its gaze. For a fleeting moment, a glint of golden-red eyes flashed beneath its hood—cold, ancient, inhuman. The soldier staggered back, trembling, muttering prayers beneath his breath.
"Close ranks," the captain ordered, though his own voice carried no conviction. "Do not interfere. We watch, nothing more."
The iron doors yawned wide. The cloaked figures moved steadily, silently, vanishing into the Black Forest as if swallowed whole. No sound of footfall, no crack of twigs, no sign of their passing remained—save for the unnatural chill that lingered in the air.
As the last figure slipped into the shadows, the gates remained open, their chains groaning faintly as though resisting the very order given.
The captain turned away, his face pale. "So it begins," he murmured, so softly that only the nearest soldier heard.
Meanwhile, deep within the Black Forest, another gathering stirred. Beneath the canopy of ancient oaks whose roots twisted like serpents around forgotten ruins, the revolutionaries prepared to march.
Their campfires burned low, scattered among moss-covered stones. Hundreds of men and women stood in grim silence, armed with pikes, crossbows, and crude steel. They were peasants, deserters, outlaws—but bound together by one word whispered on every lip: freedom.
At the center, their leaders stood over a crude wooden table carved with a map of the kingdom. The air was thick with tension and the smell of damp earth.
A tall man, his cloak torn and his hands scarred, slammed his fist down upon the map. "The gates are open. The Watch has withdrawn to the high walls. The path to the Landing is clear."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some cheered, some prayed, and others clenched their fists in silent fury.
Another leader—a woman with fiery hair bound in braids, her eyes burning brighter than the torches—spoke next. "Do you hear it, brothers and sisters? The city sleeps, but tonight the Black Forest wakes. We are its shadow, its vengeance. By dawn, the Landing will know our march."
A young revolutionary stepped forward, trembling with both fear and hope. "But… will the people rise with us? Will they not turn us away?"
The fiery-haired woman bent low, her gaze piercing his. "The people are starving. Their sons are dead in wars, their daughters sold to lords. When we strike, they will rise—not because they believe in us, but because they have nothing left. Desperation is a sharper blade than faith."
The tall man lifted his sword high, its edge catching the firelight. "Then it is settled. We march. By steel and fire, by the cries of the forsaken, we shall take the Landing. Let the royals and their three-headed dragon tremble—for tonight, a new banner rises in the Black Forest!"
The forest answered with a low, rolling wind, carrying the smell of smoke and blood yet to be spilled. The revolution had begun.
Arthur stood before them all in the heart of the Black Forest. The trees loomed like black pillars against the dimming sky, their branches twisting into shapes that looked like claws. Torches crackled, throwing wild light over steel and leather. A thousand eyes watched him—soldiers, rebels, peasants-turned-warriors—faces hardened by hunger, grief, and fury.
Arthur drew his blade and raised it high, its edge catching the firelight. His golden-red eyes burned with a fire that seemed to silence even the forest around them.
"Raise your blades high!" His voice thundered across the clearing, rolling through the trees like a storm. "Tonight, we march for the people—for every farmer crushed beneath a lord's boot, for every child starved by greedy priests, for every family broken by the corruption of this empire!"
A roar rose from the ranks, the revolutionaries lifting their weapons as one. Spears rattled, swords gleamed, and the echo of their voices carried like a beast's growl.
Arthur paced before them, his cloak dragging through the dirt, his voice lowering into a dark command."We are the nightmare they never wished to wake to. Tonight, the nobles shall dream of us, and when they wake—" He swung his sword down, the steel biting the air. "—they shall find themselves bleeding beneath our blades!"
The forest shook with their answer."FOR THE PEOPLE! FOR THE PEOPLE!"
The chanting thundered louder until even the wolves hiding in the shadows fled deeper into the woods.
But then, a sound broke through the cheers. The cawing of a raven.
The black bird swooped down from the treetops, its wings flashing in the firelight, and landed on Arthur's outstretched arm as though summoned by his will alone. A scroll was bound to its leg with crimson thread. The soldiers fell silent, watching as Arthur untied it.
He unrolled the parchment, and as his eyes scanned the words, his expression changed. His jaw clenched, the fire in his gaze dimmed, and the hand holding the paper trembled ever so slightly.
One of the younger soldiers stepped forward, his voice uneasy."Commander… what has happened?"
Arthur did not answer at once. He looked at them, at the countless men and women who had put their lives in his hands. He inhaled sharply, crushing the parchment in his fist before speaking.
"The gates of the North…" his voice was low, heavy, almost reluctant. "…they have been opened."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Another soldier frowned. "The Northern Gates? Those are sealed by the old magics. Who would—who could—break them?"
Arthur's voice dropped into a growl."They are open, and through them, the White Walkers have returned."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The older veterans blanched, some making the sign of warding across their chests. A woman near the front whispered, "That's impossible… the Walkers were banished centuries ago."
"No," Arthur snapped, his voice slicing through their fear. "Impossible or not—it has begun. The North vomits forth its dead, and every man, woman, and child who stands in their path will be swept into ice and shadow."
A scarred veteran spat on the ground, his hands shaking. "Then all this—our war, our march—what does it matter if the dead are coming for us all?"
Arthur turned to him, stepping close enough that the torchlight carved his face into something both human and inhuman."It matters," he said, low but fierce. "Because if the corrupt survive, they will kneel to the White Walkers. They will sell your children for safety, and hand your souls to the cold. If we do not burn their rot out of this land now, there will be no hope to resist what comes from the North."
He raised his blade once more, his voice erupting into a roar that made even the fire sway."Do not fear the dead! Fear the chains of the living who have enslaved you for generations! Fight them now, while you still have fire in your hearts. For when the snow falls and the White Walkers march—you will thank the blood you spill tonight!"
The silence broke into wild fury. The revolutionaries screamed, clashed their swords against their shields, and stamped their feet into the forest floor until the earth itself trembled.
But Arthur's gaze lingered northward, where the wind carried with it a chill unnatural for summer. His eyes narrowed, and beneath the fire of the revolutionary, there was something else in him—a flicker of knowledge, of dread. He had seen this before.
He whispered, barely loud enough for those closest to hear."The nightmare begins sooner than I wished…"
Arthur's boots sank into the wet earth as he stood at the edge of the Black Forest, the air thick with the iron taste of blood and the smoke of distant burning towns. His cloak hung heavy with rain, his golden-red eyes glowing faintly under the shadow of his hood. Behind him, the Black Knights held their line in silence, their steel faces unreadable, their discipline absolute. Before him, the trees seemed to breathe, their gnarled branches shifting like the spines of sleeping beasts.
He clenched his gauntleted fist, staring into the darkness.
"Daemon… you did it, didn't you?" Arthur thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. "You monster. My successor… my shadow. I knew you would continue my war, but I never thought you'd weave this kind of ploy."
The forest did not answer, only the distant crack of branches and the cold sigh of the wind through the leaves.
Then—
A sound rippled through the air, not heard but felt, like the shudder of a harp string struck in the marrow of his bones. His breath stilled. The Black Knights stirred uneasily, but none reacted, none seemed to hear what Arthur alone did.
A voice seeped into his skull—hoarse, layered, speaking not in the tongue of men but in the sibilant, broken cadence of the Children of the Forest. The words were alien, sharp as stone on stone, yet Arthur understood them.
"Sha'varin ulthë… Drakha moriën vel… Arthurosh… Naen veyra thol."
"I am coming for you."
Arthur froze. His pupils shrank. Slowly, his head turned toward the deeper shadows of the Black Forest, though he knew the voice was not of the living. His knights looked at him, puzzled at his sudden stillness, but said nothing.
"No…" Arthur's thoughts raced. That was not Daemon's tongue. That was older. Far older. This was not his ploy.
For the first time in many years, the Archduke felt the cold prickle of unease in his spine.
He exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the chill air.
Arthur's breath slowed. His golden-red eyes narrowed, and a faint smirk curved on his lips as though he had caught a secret meant only for him. None of the others noticed the stillness that overtook him, the weight of memory pressing into his chest. He thought, deliberately and with sharp command:
"Let me see through the eyes of the raven who speaks with me. I call upon my authority as kin of the Children of the Forest. Show me who dares whisper into my thoughts."
The air thickened. The world seemed to sway as if caught between one heartbeat and the next. The campfire flames bent unnaturally, shadows stretched across the earth, and for an instant Arthur's vision fractured—like looking at the world through shards of glass. His pupils dilated until his eyes resembled molten suns pierced with darkness.
And then it happened. His sight lifted.
He was no longer staring at the soldiers gathered around him, but soaring high through a raven's wings, the night wind slicing past feathers as the earth rolled beneath. His heart thundered with two rhythms—his own and that of the raven's—and his spirit surged outward, scanning the vast horizon.
"Who are you?" Arthur's thought was sharp as steel, spoken in the tongue of the Children, that ancient, broken, singsong dialect he had never forgotten. His voice in that tongue was jagged yet commanding, like a half-remembered prayer torn from the roots of the world.
"Who summons us, who dares bind the sight of the raven?" another voice hissed back, layered with many tones, as though a thousand children whispered from the darkness.
Arthur did not flinch. His words resounded in thought: "I am Arthur von Hurellious. I bear the mark of blood and oath, heir to the pact of stone and root. Show me your face."
The raven's eyes blazed. A surge of cold, otherworldly force rattled through Arthur's bones. The vision deepened. The skies split, shadows peeled away—and in their place, a figure emerged.
Pale blue eyes.
So cold they burned, so unearthly they made Arthur's own infernal gaze flicker in recognition. The eyes shone with an ancient sorrow that cut deeper than any blade. And upon that figure's brow gleamed a crown—not gold, not silver, but wrought of bone and star-metal, sharp and jagged, as though made from the very roots of heaven and earth entwined.
The figure's lips curved faintly, white as ash, into a smile both mocking and knowing.
The wind howled through the hollow oak, scattering leaves like whispers. From the shadows behind the figure came faint shapes—half-seen children with eyes like moons, laughing in shrill harmony.
The forest did not answer—only the fading echo remained of the children's laughter, threading like needles into the marrow of his bones.