The sun had not yet risen, but the kingdom was already awake. Shopkeepers lifted their shutters with yawns, setting baskets and jars neatly along their stalls. The smell of fresh bread drifted from bakeries, while the calls of birds echoed across the still-dim streets, their songs heralding the coming dawn. Life, as always, was moving forward.
But at the guard's office, there was no rhythm of day and night. The watch never ended. The men who had stood watch through the dark hours slumped against tables and chairs, their eyes heavy, their movements sluggish, as if they were drunk on exhaustion. The floor was littered with half-empty mugs of cold tea, and the flame of the lanterns flickered weakly in the stale air.
From the fading veil of night, a woman staggered inside. At first, no one moved. But as she stepped into the lamplight, the air shifted, one of the guards gasped and nearly stumbled backward.
Her entire body was drenched in blood. Her torn clothes clung to her skin, dark and wet. Crimson streaked down her face, dripping steadily from her chin, her hair plastered to her cheeks with the same red. Her steps were uneven, as though each one threatened to bring her to the floor.
For a long heartbeat, the room froze. The night-weary guards, moments before half-asleep, were now wide awake. Fear gripped them like a sudden chill, for the sight before their eyes was not merely strange, it was horrifying.
The woman's lips trembled as she tried to speak, her voice weak and broken.
"P...please… save my child…" she whispered, her words fading into the air like a dying flame.
At once, the guards stirred into motion. Chairs scraped against the floor, boots thundered across the wooden boards. But before they could reach her, her knees buckled, and she collapsed heavily to the ground, blood spreading beneath her in a dark pool.
"Someone, call the medic! Now!" one of the guards shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. He knelt beside her, his hands hovering uselessly, not daring to touch for fear of worsening her wounds.
The others rushed into the street, shouting for help, their cries echoing through the early morning silence. Inside the office, the woman lay still, her breaths shallow, her pale fingers twitching as though clinging to the last of her strength.
whispers had already begun to coil through the streets of Evergarden. The woman had not even been dead for an hour, and yet her story was already passing from ear to ear, reshaped and stretched with each telling.
"They say she stumbled into the guardhouse covered in blood," one baker murmured to his customer as he kneaded dough. "Begged them to save her child before she died right there on the floor."
"A child?" the customer whispered back, his eyes wide. "Then where is it?"
At the market, merchants paused their haggling to trade fragments of the tale. Some swore the woman had been attacked by bandits beyond the northern road. Others whispered darker things, that creatures from the old woods had returned, the kind spoken of only in hushed fireside tales.
"The guards won't tell us what they found," said a washerwoman by the river, wringing out a sheet. "Which means there's something they don't want us to know."
By dusk, the story had twisted into something else entirely. The blood on her dress was said to be not her own, but her child's. Some claimed the boy or girl, no one could agree was taken by shadowy figures, cloaked men seen at the edge of the farmlands. Others muttered that no child had ever existed at all, that the woman was a mad wanderer, her mind broken by the wilderness.
The taverns were loud with speculation, men and women leaning close, their words low and urgent, as though afraid the walls themselves might be listening.
And yet, beneath every rumor, beneath every wild embellishment, a quiet unease grew like rot in the heart of the town:
Something had happened. Something violent.
And if a child truly was missing, then somewhere out there, alone, in the dark was an answer no one wanted to face.
A month had passed since the death of King Everett Liam.
The kingdom staggered without its crown. Markets faltered, trade slowed, and law grew uncertain. The people whispered that the realm was like a ship without a captain, drifting toward ruin. Everyone looked to Prince Esmond Gladwyne, the rightful heir, yet his coronation never came.
In the Elder Council, where the kingdom's oldest guardians once swore loyalty to the throne, a darker mood had taken root.
The twelve elders gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling of the council chamber, their robes flowing like shadows across the polished marble floor. Torches burned low, filling the hall with wavering light. They spoke in hushed tones, their words heavy with ambition.
"He is too young," one elder muttered, tapping his wrinkled fingers against the table. "Too soft. He weeps like a child. A boy such as that cannot hold the realm."
"Esmond lacks his father's iron," another sneered. "The nobles will not respect him. The armies will not follow him. To put him on the throne is to invite collapse."
A third leaned forward, voice sharp as a dagger. "Then why should we place him there at all?"
The chamber fell silent. The unspoken thought had finally found words.
Prince Esmond stood by the tall windows of the palace, gazing out over the kingdom below. The morning light spilled across the rooftops, and for a fleeting moment, the troubled realm seemed at peace. He let the silence calm him, the weight of grief and duty easing as he watched the distant horizon.
But then he felt it. A presence behind him. His breath stilled. Slowly, he turned.
A young man stood there, quiet and composed, dressed in the fine garments of nobility. His hair was neatly tied, his sharp eyes fixed on the prince with a mixture of respect and curiosity. Esmond recognized him at once, Cliffer, a young nobleman of promising blood, often seen among the royal court but never too close to the throne.
The prince relaxed, a faint smile touching his lips. He lifted a hand and stretched it toward the far distance, his fingers pointing to where the ocean shimmered faintly in the light.
"Tell me, Cliffer," Esmond said softly, his voice carrying both wonder and melancholy, "across the ocean… do you think the land of Nine Tales truly exists?"
Cliffer laughed, the sound sharp against the still air of the chamber. "Of course not, my prince. I don't believe it. It was only a tale spun to frighten children and keep them from wandering too far. If such a place did exist, I cannot imagine anyone surviving within it. Those creatures the story speaks of… a waking nightmare." He shook his head with a dismissive smile, though his eyes lingered briefly on the horizon as if some small shadow of doubt lingered in him.
Prince Esmond turned fully toward him, his calm expression masking the heaviness in his heart. "Just a story to scare the children," he repeated softly. Then, his gaze sharpened, curious. "Very well, Cliffer, why have you come?"
Cliffer's smile faded. His posture stiffened, and for the first time, the air between them shifted. A heaviness, subtle yet unmistakable, seemed to creep into the room.
Esmond's brow furrowed, sensing it a weight behind the nobleman's visit, something beyond idle conversation. His heart stirred with unease, though he kept his voice even.
"What he did not know," the silence whispered around him, "was that a storm was waiting."
The Elders' Council sat gathered in the dim chamber, their voices hushed but heavy with authority.
"All is proceeding according to our design," one elder declared, his tone clipped. "See that nothing interferes. The news must be announced to the people at once. Once it is done, preparations will begin. The roads will be crowded with merchants, so ensure they remain clear."
Nods of agreement circled the table.
Then the doors slammed open.
Prince Esmond Gladwyne strode into the hall, fury flashing across his face. His boots struck the marble like drumbeats of war.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
The elders stiffened, jaws tightening, but one forced his voice to remain calm.
"What are you implying, my prince?"
"You want me to withdraw from my rightful place as heir," Esmond said, his rage echoing through the vaulted chamber. "You want the throne for yourselves. Is that it?"
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. The very air seemed to seethe with detestation.
Then Esmond's anger faltered something cold brushed against his awareness. Someone stood behind him.
"Take the throne for ourselves?" came a smooth, measured voice. "My prince… you misunderstood."
Esmond turned.
From the shadows emerged Georgian Binlas. His gaze was sharp, unwavering, a predator's stare. Draped in wealth and authority, he carried himself like one already seated upon a throne. His influence stretched across every corner of the kingdom, and his presence made the chamber itself seem smaller.
"Without a king, the realm slides into imbalance," Georgian said softly. "Even if you ascend, you cannot restore what is lost. But we, the elders can. Still, we will not act unless you withdraw."
It was no bargain. It was a threat, pure and deliberate.
Esmond's chest tightened. They are after more than the throne, he realized. They want my inheritance as well. This will not end without blood.
But pride rose within him, fierce and unyielding. The prince's voice cut through the silence.
"I will not yield."
Georgian's lips curled into a mocking smile, his tone laced with contempt.
"Then you choose the hard way, my prince. So be it. Do as you please."