The atmosphere in the room was warm, pleasant, and above all relaxed. At least until the moment the captain of the prince's guard set his wine goblet down on the table—slowly and deliberately. He perked up his ears, ready to listen to an unusual story from his prince. He leaned forward over the table, and before the prince could even begin, he had to interrupt him.
"The Paths of the King's Stones." he uttered, intrigued. "I haven't heard that story mentioned in a long time, Your Highness." he said, while thinking to himself why he would even bring it up—King's Stones hadn't been seen for centuries.
"Well," the prince took a quick sip and continued in his melodic voice, "I think it's about time it was mentioned again."
He placed the goblet filled with crimson wine on the table, then leaned forward on his elbows against the wooden surface.
Enfir looked at him confused, intrigued, and sharply focused, hiding his fear. A fear of the King's Stones, which was a source of great power—but also great sorrow and evil, depending on who wielded it.
"Once upon a time…" the prince began, as every fairy tale starts. "Actually—why don't we skip that part." He chuckled, and the captain stared at him with seriousness.
"Why now?" the captain asked quietly, and the prince glanced at him, confused.
"Why is it time to bring back the stories of the 'Paths', my prince?" he asked deeply. The prince resumed, this time very seriously.
"As you already know. When people discovered the King's Stones, four weapons were forged from them, bringing peace and balance to our world." The prince paused and stood up.
"Come with me, Captain Enfir." he said softly, elegantly, warmly.
Obeying the indirect command, Enfir drank the rest of the wine in his goblet and followed him. The two of them walked through corridors wrapped in thick, dark green leaves that served as both walls and ceiling, their heels making dull sounds on the dark wooden planks. Fireflies floated through the hallways, illuminating them—many of them gathering around the prince whom they adored, drawn to him by his magical beauty. And he loved them as well, for he understood them best.
"After the wars ended," young Darn began again, "the weapons were no longer needed, and the stones separated from them. After that, four great families at the time from each kingdom were entrusted with one stone each to guard."
The captain watched and listened. With the glowing fireflies around them it was difficult to concentrate, but his attention remained fully on the prince. 'This story is important', he thought. 'I cannot miss a single word'.
At one point, the prince stopped, and Enfir halted behind him. They stood before doors made of rosewood, decorated with beautiful purple patterns that emphasized the dark tone of the wood.
"This is…" the captain paused and looked at the prince. "Your library, my prince."
The prince smiled at him.
"Indeed. Our story continues inside." he said, then raised his right hand and formed a hollow circle with his thumb and index finger while the other three fingers extended. He uttered something in Old Tolanian that Enfir didn't fully understand. The only word he recognized was the final one: "Laszylz", meaning open.
The doors weren't tall nor large—simple double doors carved with forest motifs. When they opened, darkness greeted them, and with every step the prince took, light followed him.
"Please, my friends," he said kindly and gently.
The fireflies scattered throughout the room, and those already inside emerged from the shadows, slowly illuminating it. Enfir stared in amazement, his eyes widening. Light spread, revealing a room five meters tall and at least fifty meters long, as far as he could calculate by sight. It was full of shelves with narrow passages between them, forming a labyrinth of knowledge. The shelves were packed with books—old and new, all kinds. A massive treetop made of dark leaves formed the ceiling, sturdy and stable.
The prince turned to Enfir.
"Let's go," he said contentedly.
They walked through the labyrinth slowly, looking around. Enfir didn't know what they were searching for—he was simply curious about the books. He saw titles ranging from "Cooking in Staromor" to "Natural Energy Techniques on the Pale Cliffs."
"Staromor?" he thought. "That's not even close… I'm pretty sure that's an island east of Luganor, not to mention the Pale Cliffs which lie even farther east, past the Empire."
He examined each book, surprised every time his eyes caught a title. They walked, and the prince continued:
"After the Great War five centuries ago, the stones were lost. As far as anyone knows, the families still had descendants capable of guarding them, but the stones were lost nonetheless."
He paused and pulled a book from a shelf. "Or so they say."
The old book—its pale gray cover combined with shades of brown—was in decent condition, though far from its original color. No dust, but no visible title either. The letters had worn away. All Enfir could distinguish was an eight-pointed star-like symbol.
"'Or so they say?'" he repeated, only realizing after a few seconds what his prince had spoken aloud.
The prince walked toward a table which was somewhere only he knew of, continuing through the maze of shelves while holding a book under his arm. His captain following.
"You see, dear Enfir. People are greedy and cruel in most cases. But I believe people can be good and gentle too. That they can trust others, and help them."
Enfir searched within himself for an answer, but found none. He simply didn't understand what the prince meant.
"Forgive me, my prince, but I don't understand. What are you trying to say?"
They exited the labyrinth into an open area where a small round wooden table stood. The prince gently placed the book down and rested his hand upon it.
"Tell me this: If someone gave you a weapon to protect yourself with—would that be a blessing or a curse?"
The captain thought how he hadn't drunk nearly enough wine for this.
"I think," he said sharply and coldly,knowing that the situation requires his seriousness, "a weapon used to protect is also a weapon that can take a life."
The prince smiled softly, pleased with the head captain's answer.
"I agree, Captain Enfir. And I think it's the same with the King's Stones—don't you?"
"If you say so, my prince," Enfir agreed.
"Well, after the war, the stones were lost. But people never stopped searching for them. And some came close. Over generations, people mapped out the 'Paths of the King's Stones.'"
He opened the book. The paper itself was well preserved—no tears or crumbling. But the pages were brown, not white, light tan rather than snow-colored. Enfir stepped closer and when he saw what lay on the pages, he froze.
"These are…" The captain began.
"The paths," the prince finished. "At least parts of them. You see, for centuries, people followed the secret routes left behind by their ancestors to find the stones again. Most, of course, died, or got lost, or simply gave up—because the maps were incomplete and led through dangerous, unmapped regions."
He flipped through pages filled with markings and maps—from the depths of the Marble Abyss south of Tolan, across Luganor's Savage Mountains, all the way to the Sunlit Lakes of Kaharu. Marks were everywhere. But the maps were incomplete.
"Then why bring them up now?" Enfir asked, stroking his beard.
The prince closed the book and walked back to return it to the shelf.
"Recently, I've heard more and more fragments of these 'paths' are appearing. They say Emperor Toshimizu has at least three locations where one of the stones might be hidden—while King Ailred holds an equal number. Ganalor remains a mystery. Every scout I've sent there has failed to return. Something is brewing in the west."
"And what about Luganor?" the captain asked while trailing him.
The prince returned the book and walked toward the doors.
"That is an interesting story. As far as I know, a few people possess fragments of the paths—but the king is not among them. And… there is one thing I've heard—though I don't know how true it is."
He stopped before the doors.
"What is that?" Enfir asked, intrigued.
"Apparently, a very important fragment had been passed down for generations in the Gudbrand family. But after the former captain of the First Division died without leaving an heir, they say there is only one man to whom he entrusted that fragment."
The doors opened as they stepped out. The fireflies slowly gathered and drifted out with them. The library grew darker behind them, until the doors shut, and the darkness swallowed the room.
The masts were slowly giving way on both sides, gusts of wind pushed the ships which kept crashing into one another. With every new impact, pieces flew off and tore away from the large wooden vessels. Planks, nails, hooks and ropes disappeared into the dark waves—once silver, now black under the cover of night. The crashing of waves against the hull, the stern and the bow, the strikes of steel against steel, the clatter of swords and spears, the splatter of blood and bodies hitting the deck, the screams and roars from both sides—these sounds filled the air, leaving little room for the wind and rain that slapped against them as they mixed with the blood.
Hugo was firing miniature spears one by one, but slowly. One arm didn't help, and in this weather and under these conditions, he was steadily losing his strength. He fired a spear and hit one of the masts of the pirate ship with a clean shot; it tilted and fell onto the other mast that now held it up. Its sail had long been torn apart; Hugo had aimed well before, but this time he struck the mark.
He smiled.
"Tonight," he shouted. "Tonight we'll dance with the waves." He was eccentric, and he went to grab another miniature spear to finish the job—but the pirate ship rocked from the mast's impact and slammed into the ship of the Luganorian Royal Fleet. Hugo slid across the deck and crashed into the wall; the impact was dull and heavy, but the spear he needed slid along with him. He smiled again, blood running from his mouth, and reached for it.
On the pirate ship, the impact was felt most by Kjaran and Waeskian. Both staggered; Waeskian, already greatly weakened, fell to his left knee and held himself up by driving his sabre into the planks. Kjaran reeled, but stayed on his feet. He too had spent a large amount of natural energy. His muscles were tired, but nowhere near as tired as Waeskian's. It showed on the pirate captain's face: bloody and bruised, one eye half-shut, and his arms barely functional. They hung limp and heavy; he could hardly lean on his sabre.
"If this keeps up…" Waeskian panted. "Everything will sink."
He rose with difficulty as Kjaran approached.
"That's the goal, Waeskian," replied the captain of the First Division through the noise of everything except the wind and rain. Then Waeskian smiled, stood up straighter and shook himself off. He looked up at the sky and thought of the warm breasts of the woman who had been sitting in his lap, or the gentle kiss of his lieutenant, and above all he thought of the sweet rum from the Marble Abyss that flowed down his throat every night. Now his throat carried blood, rain, sweat and desire. His desire for freedom—one Kjaran was slowly suppressing.
Elstan may have been unarmed, but he wasn't in a disadvantageous position. As the pirate lieutenant prepared to strike, Elstan gathered natural energy; his muscles trembled, his ligaments and tendons stretched tight. He was the one who attacked first—coming from the right, bending low and aiming a right hook—but the pirate lieutenant read him and swung toward his arm. His blade cutting through the air,swiftly and deadly.Elstan, with electrified speed, dodged the strike, shifting to the completely opposite side.The air crackled around him.The pirate's expression revealed his thought:
"How?" was the only word in his mind. He turned left and looked at Elstan—his face furious, teeth clenched, eyes burning, fists tense and full of natural energy.
"I didn't even blink, and he was already somewhere else."
Fear covered the pirate's face—fear and horror.
"He is… a monster."
He didn't even manage to gather natural energy to defend himself from Elstan's blow before being launched into the burning lower deck. As he flew, blood poured from his mouth. The captain of the Second Division had struck him in the ribs, breaking them—one rib punctured his lung, another pierced his heart. The ship was beyond saving; Elstan knew it. He watched Sergeant Brann's body lying motionless—without upper limbs, surrounded by blood thinned by the rain.
"In the end, I won't be able… to bring you home," he thought as he caught his breath.
"I have to get back to the deck. Hugo needs my help."
He headed for the stairs leading up, forced to push through smoke and fire, but he would make it—he knew he had to.
On deck the battles were slowly drawing to a close. The Luganorians had the advantage of training and coordination, but the pirates still outnumbered them. Both sides had strong fighters, but Nuro, Gerde and the rest of the guard were extremly terrifying. They held initiative and controlled their parts of the deck, but their ship was steadily falling apart—the entire lower deck burned, and the mast bent more and more. The rope holding it had already been damaged, and gusts of wind, arrows and thrown spears had frayed it further.
Hugo knew this, and he was ready to deliver the final shot—the shot that would drag them into the silver, the shot that would end this night, the shot that would conclude this sea battle. But to reach that, he had to get through her—the pirate captain's lieutenant who stood in his way. The same woman who had kissed her captain before the fight. Now she was bloody and soaked, her light brown hair now darkened to brown, her emerald-green eyes glowing in the dark. She held two swords dripping with blood. Hugo sighed deeply—tired and annoyed—knowing that reaching the miniature spear-thrower wouldn't be easy.
She watched him sharply and coldly, but her blood boiled. This battle was lost, but she could at least try to save her captain and his ship.
"You," Hugo began nonchalantly, holding the spear in the only arm he had left. "You've killed many of my men." His tone was weary. "And… if there's any way I can repay them, it's by sinking your ship."
He looked at her and laughed loudly, then took a stance with the large spear, its tip aimed at her.
"Give me strength," he prayed silently.
"Gods of the sea… no, my fallen sailors. I'll join you soon. Then we can drink and celebrate again. On calm waters, under the sun and clear skies. Soon."
He charged at her savagely. Thrusting with his spear, he tried to end it quickly—he didn't have much strength left. She blocked with her twin blades, but one thrust still slipped through and cut her right side, drawing blood. Hugo attacked harder, thinking it was his chance—but he was wrong. She baited him, then slid aside and closed the distance in one swift motion. Her two swords found Hugo's stomach and pierced him—but he managed to pull back at the last second, so the blades didn't sink in too deep. He leapt aside, blood flowing down his gear and dripping onto the deck.
"I can't beat her alone. Not like this," Hugo knew.
But he didn't need to beat her alone.
Suddenly an arrow struck her in the arm from the left. As she turned, another one struck her thigh. She dropped one sword and grimaced in pain. Hugo looked to his right and saw Ratko sending arrows from the other end of the deck—his powerful projectiles sliced through the air with vibrations.
It didn't take long for the captain to reach the projectile machine. Through pain and blood, through wind and water, with one arm missing, he stood behind the device and loaded the spear. He used the last bits of his natural energy to draw the string. Everything was ready.
Then a sword flew through the air and stabbed him in the heart from the side—the sword of the fallen lieutenant who had put all her remaining strength into that throw. Her blade was cold, wet, bloody and gleaming—and Hugo felt himself growing cold as well.
"I'll give the first toast," he thought with a smile, releasing the string.
The spear flew through the air—just one spear, heavy and silent. It carried blood, rain, will, hope and desire. It sliced the air, whistled, and struck the second mast of the pirate ship. The wood cracked sharply. The mast began to fall under the pressure of the first mast and the impact of the spear.
At that moment, the rope holding the Luganorian mast also snapped.
Suddenly everything went silent. Everyone stopped fighting, and every face froze in shock. Elstan had just reached the deck when he saw the mast collapsing. They heard the waves, the rain, and the crack of thunder that preceded the end.
Then, suddenly—impact. A strong, crushing impact—from both sides. All three masts fell. The ships collided. Deck planks shattered, ropes snapped, hooks flew apart, and the already torn sails did nothing to soften the blow.
The crash echoed through the air—but no one heard it. They were at sea, on a raging sea in the depths of the night. The waves kept crashing for a long time after, the rain kept falling, and from the ships remained only planks and beams floating on the dark surface.
Night passed, and a new day dawned in Nilfalion, the capital of Tolan. The day brought good weather—clear skies with a few clouds. It was the kind of weather everyone coming to the royal capital had hoped for today—ready for celebration, for feasting, drinking and revelry.
People rushed everywhere; the streets were full of merchants, knights, lords and ladies from all parts of the greatest kingdom in Meridiana. Carriages filled the roads, entering one after another through the great wooden gate, while the less important stayed outside and raised their tents.
Today, Nilfalion celebrated the fiftieth name-day of King Ailred Vinjeon.