The ground was red… no, more like the color of old wounds left without medicine. Broken swords, empty helmets, and armor half-buried in the dirt, the other half lodged in the chests of those whose names were long forgotten. In the distance, a severed head stood like a statue time forgot to topple, and with every breath of wind, the scent of death rose—not fresh, but familiar, as though it lived here.
In the middle of this silence, the woman walked.
Her white dress rippled across the earth like a lost hope, and her long golden hair followed the wind without resistance. Her steps were steady—she wasn't searching, nor did she seem to have lost anything… but she was watching.
Then came a voice from behind her, soft, trembling slightly, as though innocence itself were trying to understand this devastation:
"Grandmother… let's go."
The little girl, with her radiant yellow hair, stood a few steps away, her eyes holding questions that time had no answers for.
Beside her stood a knight with hair as black as the ash of this land. His sword remained sheathed, but his presence was unmistakable.
The lady turned to them… a brief glance, then closed her eyes.
And in a moment, everything changed.
⸻
The scene shifted.
A semi-regal room, lit by soft light filtering through glass framed in gold. A fourteen-year-old girl sat on a luxurious couch, her back straight, her eyes scanning the lines of an old leather-bound book tied with a coarse string.
"Elvarin Dareth," the eldest daughter of a noble family, looked up lazily at the black-haired teacher with rectangular glasses, and said with soft sarcasm:
"This is ridiculous… the Arecians? No one believes that nonsense anymore."
Meraya Velenth, the teacher who mastered silence as well as speech, smiled gently and replied:
"Perhaps… but this book was passed down from my father's grandfather, just as I inherited it. We don't know what's true in it… and what's mere legend."
In the corner of the room, Naelin Dareth, twelve years old, was playing on the floor with a small wooden box filled with colorful stones. She didn't seem to be listening, but her eyes sparkled… as if she knew something yet unspoken.
On the floor, Naelin was drawing something with charcoal on a half-folded piece of paper. She didn't know if she was sketching a map or writing a story, but her focused expression was clear… until suddenly, a boy her age burst into the room.
He looked just like her—eye for eye—but his recklessness overshadowed her calm.
"Move!" he shouted, bumping her with his shoulder, causing her to fall beside the wooden box.
Meraya, who hadn't intended to interfere, raised her glasses swiftly and rushed to help Naelin sit up. She looked at the boy with a firm tone:
"That is unacceptable, Rhael."
The boy paused, then bowed his head in shame and picked up the charcoal and paper that had fallen from his sister's hands. He handed them back and said in a low voice:
"Sorry, Naelin. I didn't mean to."
Naelin stared at him for a moment, then took her tools without a word.
At that moment, Elvarin shut the book with visible frustration, stood up, and said sharply:
"This lesson is ridiculous."
Meraya raised an eyebrow, this time with more authority:
"Your father instructed me to teach you until the end."
Elvarin turned away without looking back, saying:
"I am the lady of Kashtar Hollow Keep… I don't need to read fairy tales about a people said to live among the snows, whom no one has ever seen."
Then she strode toward the door, ignoring Meraya's call, and left with the sound of her steps echoing between the castle walls.
⸻
In the corridors of Kashtar Hollow Keep, built of cold stone and decorated with family emblems, Elvarin walked thoughtfully. Anger was no stranger to her heart, but today she wasn't sure where to direct it… at the book? The lesson? Or something much deeper.
As she turned at a corridor's intersection, she suddenly collided with a body as solid as rock.
"Would you watch where you're going?!" she exclaimed, rubbing her shoulder, then looked up and raised an eyebrow.
"Alther Dareth!"
The seventeen-year-old stood tall, his brown hair tied back, and his eyes gleamed with energy. He held a wooden training sword, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Ah, sorry, I was in a hurry," he said, smiling casually.
"In a hurry to where? You nearly knocked me over!"
"I want to see my older brother—he's sparring in the keep's courtyard today. The commander allowed him to use a real sword this time!"
Elvarin's eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, she seemed to forget her anger.
"…Really?"
Alther nodded confidently, then tilted his head toward the lower halls:
"Come if you'd like—there's still time."
She hesitated for a moment, then followed him in silence, their footsteps echoing through the corridors of Kashtar Hollow… while distant winds carried something from the north, something only forgotten tales remember.
Elvarin occasionally twirled and skipped in the wide halls as she walked beside her brother Alther, her long silver hair trailing behind her like the wind had taken it on a playful stroll. Alther smiled as he watched, then said in a teasing older-brother tone:
"You look happy now. Just a while ago you were about to explode."
She stopped for a second and turned toward him, placing her hands on her hips and raising an eyebrow:
"Well… I was angry about the lesson. At first, it was interesting—I mean, the history of the Arecians has some mystery—but it gets boring after a while."
Alther chuckled and ruffled her hair gently:
"Sometimes, knowledge is more dangerous than any sword or army. It might save you someday. Don't forget—you're a Dareth, and the lady of Kashtar Hollow. You must be well-learned… to pass it on to those who come after you, my lady."
She turned her face away with a huff, visibly annoyed:
"You're amazing… like a slave to books and lectures… if only you weren't so boring."
Alther smiled without responding. He just continued walking beside her in silence.
**
When they reached the castle courtyard, the scent of fresh hay and hot stone wafted toward them, mingling with horse whinnies and the clash of metal. Knights trained in rows, swords glinting in the sunlight, hay scattered on the ground.
At the center of the yard stood a knight in heavy armor covering his entire body, holding a sword in his left hand. Opposite him was another man in lighter armor, revealing sharp eyes full of focus. He was the castle's swordmaster.
The duel began, swords clashing with a thunderous sound. The younger knight moved skillfully, but it didn't take long before he lost balance and fell, the sound of his fall echoing off the yard's walls.
He slowly stood, lifted his helmet, revealing a dark-skinned young man with black, sweat-drenched hair and sharp black eyes full of determination. He was their eldest brother…
Kaelen Dareth, twenty-one years old, tall and muscular.
He stood before his mentor, a man in his early forties with a short beard and a head of thick curly hair. The mentor spoke in a powerful voice:
"Remember, Kaelen… yes, you use your left hand, but it's not always stable. In crucial moments, you unconsciously revert to your right. And today, as you saw, it was completely unarmed. That gap could've ended the match in two seconds."
Kaelen laughed, waving his sword:
"Yes, yes… your wisdom is eternal, great warrior!"
He said sarcastically, making the instructor frown slightly—though a smile eventually crept in.
Then he turned to Alther, who he had noticed from the start:
"There you are… traded the book for a wooden sword. Well… sorry, I can't train you today. This brute wore me out."
He pointed his thumb at Kaelen, who gave a dramatic bow while laughing.
As the three siblings exchanged light-hearted teasing amid the sounds of horses and clashing swords, voices rose from the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Elvarin glanced up and whispered:
"That's Mother and Father…"
Dareth stood as always, imposing in stature, his black coat draped over a deep crimson robe, his presence like a heavy shadow silencing those around him.
Before him stood his wife, Lysera Valethor, her golden beauty now tightened with concern.
She said in a low but razor-sharp voice:
"I told you—don't meddle in what doesn't concern you. You can't oppose the Kineset so publicly, Dareth… you're dragging the Keep into something irreversible."
Dareth replied firmly, his eyes blazing with unwavering resolve:
"It's the Kineset that's dragging the entire land into rot. Five letters came to me this month alone, all pointing to their interference—even within our walls. And if Kashtar Hollow is part of Zarynthar, there's no escaping this filth. If we stay silent, there'll be nothing left to rule."
Lysera opened her mouth to reply, then swallowed her words. She knew that face. When Dareth made up his mind, he never turned back.
Dareth raised his hand to the hall's chief—a senior man wearing a red sash over his left shoulder—who quickly approached.
"Bring paper and ink," Dareth said sharply, "I have a message that must be sent tonight."
He sat at his desk in silence, his face grim, features etched with deep worry. He picked up the quill and wrote swiftly but precisely, filling the page with words whose meaning no one knew.
When he finished, he sealed it with his personal mark and called for a guard, saying in a low but decisive voice:
"Deliver it to Thorek, son of Molgrin… only him."
The guard took the message and left the keep, the doors slowly closing behind him.
Dareth remained standing, his eyes fixed on a door that may never return an answer.
⸻
The scene shifts to the heart of Arvendore, where the forge's flames never die and the ringing of hammers never ceases.
In a massive smithy filled with steam and smoke, stood a young man around twenty-three years old, his body soaked in sweat from hard labor, muscles glistening under the dancing firelight. He plunged a molten sword into the water trough, steam hissing around him. As he reached for another, it slipped from his grasp and clanged heavily to the ground.
From the workshop's corner, a short, stout dwarf emerged, his fiery red hair and beard flaring like a blaze. He picked up the sword and said gruffly:
"Your hand's gone soft, Eldric Varnen… or have you turned into a sculptor?"
The young man smiled, wiping his brow:
"Well, Thorek… I guess the dwarves are stronger than me."
The dwarf bellowed with laughter, slapping the sword onto the table:
"We are masters of craft! Masters of the forge! If you're soft and weak, what are you doing in Arvendore—land of craft, fire, and stone? Ha!"
He roared with a deep, echoing laugh that rang through the workshop like the sound of a massive hammer.
The scene zooms out to reveal the entire city of Arvendore from atop a high cliff—its great walls encircling it from all sides, standing tall like a fortress of flame and iron, ever pulsing with life and labor.