The journey began at dawn. Mamir, Visrok, and the White Cloaks rode southward, their cloaks fluttering in the cold wind. The path narrowed as they entered the wild lands, where forests whispered with unseen voices and shadows lingered even under the sun.
Visrok looked around uneasily.
"These lands… it feels as though they are already claimed by the darkness."
Seron Valar kept his gaze fixed ahead.
"They are. The seal weakens with each passing day. If we do not reach the southern caves in time, the shadows will rise beyond control."
Mamir gripped his sword tightly.
"Then we cannot afford delay. Lead the way."
---
Far away, in the golden halls of Harland's palace, shadows of a different kind stirred.
Prince Harlax paced before the council, his voice sharp with venom.
"Father weakens with age. And Mamir… the bastard has stolen the people's love with his tricks. Do you not see? If he returns from this journey alive, Harland will bow to him, not to me!"
A few nobles muttered in agreement, their eyes gleaming with greed.
From the corner, the royal sorcerer Artheon watched silently. His face was unreadable, but in his mind the old prophecy echoed: "The blood of brothers will decide the fate of the crown."
He whispered to himself, unheard by others:
"Let them ride south. Let them face the darkness. Here, in the palace, another battle has already begun."