The story begins in the year 1403, on a cold and silent evening. A huge castle stood on a lonely hill, but it was no longer the proud fortress it once had been. Its walls were cracked, its towers broken, and black burn marks spread across every stone. Anyone who saw it would think the same thing—
a dragon must have burned it.
Dead soldiers lay everywhere on the ground—fallen knights, broken shields, and shattered arrows. The smell of smoke and blood still hung in the air as if the battle had ended only moments ago.
Inside the ruined castle, in the deepest hall where the throne stood, sat a man named Victor Haunt.
Victor's beard was light and short, his chest broad and strong, but his face was covered with dry blood. His armor—once shining with pride—was scratched, dented, and torn from the battle. His sword, the weapon he trusted for years, was now broken into two pieces at his feet.
Victor sat on the throne, breathing heavily. His eyes were tired, but a strange calmness filled his face.
In a soft, broken voice, he whispered:
"One last time…"
He repeated it again.
"Just one last time…"
And again, softer than before:
"One last time…"
Suddenly, a giant shadow moved at the entrance.
The ground shook. The air grew hot.
A dragon's face appeared in the hall—its eyes burning like fire, its breath glowing orange.
Victor did not move. He simply looked at the, as if accepting his fate.
The dragon opened its mouth, and in the next heartbeat— a wave of fire rushed forward and swallowed Victor Haunt completely.
And the castle fell silent once more.
Far from the ruins of the burned castle of 1403, in the heart of the northern lands, lay the Haunt House—a kingdom both powerful and feared. Its walls were high, its banners black and silver, and its armies strong. What made Haunt truly unstoppable, however, was not just its soldiers.
They had a dragon, a creature of fire and shadow, whose mere roar could burn villages to ash. And they had gold, mountains of it, hidden deep within the vaults of the kingdom. Every neighboring land knew that Haunt House was not a kingdom to be challenged lightly.
Several days' journey away, in a city far from the smoldering ruins of Valemor, lay WesronFell. This was the capital of the largest kingdom in the north. Its streets were busy with merchants, guards, and nobles, and its stone towers reached proudly toward the sky. In this city, politics and power were everything, and every decision affected the fate of the land.
Inside the royal carriage that rolled slowly through the streets of Wesron Fell sat Aeron Klingers II, the heir of the famous Klingers House. He was a man of around thirty-five to forty years old—a strong, commanding presence. His hair was black, streaked with silver, and his white beard framed a face that had known both battle and politics. His eyes were striking: one green, one black, a mark of both power and mystery.
Aeron had a complex life. He had two wives, though one was lost to time and rumors. Sitting in his throne room, he tried to focus on the matters of the kingdom, but his mind was distracted by something unexpected.
A servant, bowing slightly, asked carefully:
"Your Highness, your daughter wishes to visit Medown House…"
Aeron looked at the men gathered before him and said,
"The people of Haunt House are looking down on us. They believe they are above us because their finest warriors are still in our custody. Go to their village and speak. And Settlement the matter before it grows into something worse."
The men nodded and left the hall with hurried steps.
A short while later, Aeron walked toward his daughter's chamber. She was soon to turn fifteen. Her room was tidy, warm, and beautifully arranged, with a small balcony overlooking the vast sea. The waves reflected the silver moonlight, filling the room with a calm glow.
His daughter stood near the balcony, her long black hair flowing down her back. She wore royal-style clothing—soft fabrics, fine embroidery—and a small crown rested on her head.
On that crown, a delicate symbol was carved: the mark of a free bird.
She looked peaceful, unaware of the storms rising in the kingdoms beyond the sea.
Her daughter's name was Lyna Klinger, and she had only one wish in her heart—she wanted to visit Medown House. Her cousin, Tyler Modsun, lived there, and her wedding day was approaching fast. Lyna had not visited Medown for many years, and the thought of missing her cousin's wedding troubled her deeply.
She turned to her father with anxious eyes.
"Father… please. I want to go. I need to go," she insisted, her voice stubborn yet hopeful.
Aeron frowned, his arms crossed. The northern lands were restless, and the roads were growing dangerous. He did not want his daughter traveling at such a time.
"No, Lyna. Not now," he said firmly.
But Lyna did not give up. She pleaded again and again, pulling at his arm, standing in his way, refusing to let him leave the room without an answer. Her stubbornness, her innocence, and her growing frustration filled the chamber like a storm.
Finally, Aeron sighed in defeat.
"Fine," he said. "You may go… but only for a few days. You will stay for your cousin's wedding, and the moment it is over—you return home. Do you understand?"
Lyna's face lit up instantly, her joy bursting brighter than the sea beyond her balcony.
"Yes, Father! I promise."
And for the first time that night, Aeron allowed himself a small, worried smile.
Far away from Wesron Fell, the scene shifted to Medown House—a land known for its piercing cold. The winds were sharp and frosty, but unlike the northern mountains, the grounds were not covered in snow. Instead, the chill clung to the air, to the stone walls, and to every breath that escaped one's lips.
A group of Medown soldiers rode their horses through the cold morning, their cloaks fluttering as they made their way toward the castle.
When they reached the gates, the sound of hooves echoed through the courtyard. From a high window in the castle tower, Tyler Modsun looked down. For a moment, her heart fluttered—she thought her cousin Lyna had arrived.
But as the riders dismounted, she realized with disappointment that Lyna was not among them.
Inside her chamber, Tyler sat before a tall silver mirror, and getting ready. Two women stood beside her, adjusting her gown, smoothing her hair, and placing delicate ornaments around her neck.
"You look even more beautiful today, my lady," one of them said warmly.
Another woman smiled and added, "Do not worry. Your cousin will arrive soon. A letter came this morning—she wrote that she will reach Medown House before nightfall."
Tyler breathed softly, her eyes filled with hope. "I truly wish she arrives soon," she whispered. "A wedding feels empty without her."
Lyna was fully prepared to leave. A woman accompanied her—assigned to look after her throughout the journey. Together, they stepped into Wesron's royal carriage, the horses snorting softly as the wheels began to roll forward. The road had only just begun when Lyna noticed a familiar figure stepping into view—her stepmother.
She was young and beautiful, standing with her usual quiet grace and an unsettling calm. In a low, almost whispering voice, she said,
"Fire still runs in your blood."
Hearing this, Lyna frowned, confusion tightening her features as she replied, "I don't understand what you mean… Perhaps you should try saying these things in front of my father."
Her stepmother's lips curved into a faint, mysterious smile—one that made Lyna even more uneasy, as if those words carried a hidden truth heavy enough for even the wind to feel. Lyna had begun her journey. The road ahead was long, but the sky that morning was completely clear. There was gentle warmth in the air, and as the royal carriage moved along the coast, sunlight shimmered across the deep blue sea. This was the southern sea—calm, ancient, and carrying secrets within its quiet waves.
Suddenly, a shadow stretched across the water. The sea stirred, and from its depths rose a dragon, lifting itself into the sky with a fierce, steady grace. On its back sat a woman—around twenty-five to thirty years old—dressed in dark, royal clothing styled. Her presence was commanding. Her sharp features, focused eyes, and calm posture made her look like someone with a keen, strategic mind, a person who observed everything and forgot nothing.
She wore a black leather coat lined with silver patterns, a curved blade hung at her waist, and tall black boots reached her knees. Her hair was black—partially tied, partially flowing. Dark kohl outlined her eyes, and red color brightened her lips. She looked like a shadow of royalty and danger combined.
The dragon carried her across the wide sea and landed upon a lonely, ancient island—Haunt Island. Its structures were old, crumbling, yet strangely alive with silence. In the center stood a ruined castle, its stones whispering stories of forgotten centuries.
The woman climbed down from the dragon. A servant immediately appeared, taking the beast toward a deep cavern. She continued alone toward the castle's great doors. The moment she stepped inside, an eerie stillness settled around her, as if the entire place recognized her presence.
Meanwhile, in Medown House, Tyler waited anxiously. Her heart leaped each time footsteps echoed. Then—at last—the gates opened, and a Wesron royal carriage entered the courtyard. Lyna stepped out gracefully.
For a second, Tyler could only stare… then both cousins rushed forward and embraced, overjoyed—as if two sisters separated for years had finally been reunited.
Tyler led Lyna through the warm stone corridors of Medown House, her excitement shining in every step. By now, it was already afternoon, and sunlight poured brightly through the tall castle windows, casting long golden patterns on the floors. When they entered Tyler's chamber, the room was filled with a soft, warm glow. The walls were lined with silver-and-blue tapestries showing ancient winters of Medown. A tall window let in the crisp, cool air from outside, and beneath it stood a carved wooden desk scattered with letters, ribbons, and pieces of bridal jewelry. At the center of the room was a large bed covered in thick velvet blankets, soft furs, and cushions embroidered with tiny snow-flowers.
The moment the door closed behind them, both girls jumped onto the bed, sinking into the soft blankets as if they were children again.
Tyler burst out laughing first. "You have no idea how crazy everyone has become because of this wedding. I swear, half the relatives came only to show off their new clothes."
Lyna giggled, leaning back on a pillow. "I can imagine. Aunt Marlina must be shining like a walking chandelier."
"Oh, she is!" Tyler threw her hands up. "She said, 'Tyler dear, weddings must be elegant,' and then arrived wearing a gown heavier than my entire bridal dress!"
Both girls laughed.
"And wait," Tyler added, lowering her voice, "Uncle Harben has already fought with three guests about who gets the biggest slice of the feast-meat."
Lyna covered her mouth to hold back her laughter. "He hasn't changed!"
Tyler rolled her eyes. "And don't even ask about the matchmakers. They're circling me like hungry hawks. One even asked if I'm absolutely sure about my groom, because she has a nephew who plays the harp 'very beautifully.'"
Lyna fell sideways laughing. "A harp? That's her big offer?"
"A harp!" Tyler sighed dramatically. "As if I'd leave my fiancé because someone's nephew can play music nicely at night."
Both girls laughed until tears sparkled in their eyes. For a while, they lay there—talking, teasing, gossiping about relatives—forgetting politics, dangers, and distant troubles. In Tyler's cozy, sunlit room, on that velvet-covered bed, it felt like the outside world simply didn't exist.
Night had settled over Medown House, and the great hall—where the family gathered for every important feast—glowed softly with warm lantern light. A celebration had been prepared that evening, for an important announcement was soon to be made. Guests had already filled the long tables; music played gently through the hall, and before everyone lay plates of rich food and delicious roasted meat.
Branth Modsun, Tyler's father, sat at the head of the table. A scar marked the corner of his left eye—a silent reminder of an old wound. Though he was between thirty and forty, the hardships of life made him appear older. Beside him sat Tyler and Lyna, sharing quiet smiles as they enjoyed the feast.
Lyna leaned toward Tyler and teased softly, "Your house serves food and meat in a way that matches the people here—sometimes warm, sometimes cold, but always incredibly tasty."
Tyler laughed aloud at the remark, quickly covering her mouth so the nearby guests wouldn't hear her giggle.
At that moment, Branth Modsun rose from his seat. The hall fell silent, every eye turning toward him. Lifting his cup, he spoke in a voice filled with pride, "My friends and family… two days from now, my daughter Tyler will be married."
A brief emotion tightened his expression before he continued, "Tonight is not only a feast—it is the beginning of the joy we are about to welcome into our home."
The hall erupted with cheerful voices—congratulations, blessings, and clinking cups. Branth smiled and added, "This wedding will be a celebration unlike any other."
For a moment, his gaze rested on Lyna—sharp, curious, almost unreadable. Lyna met his eyes with a calm, steady expression, unaware of the silent questions hidden behind his look.
Just then, a servant hurried into the hall, followed by a soldier dragging a man whose hands were bound tightly with rope. The stranger's clothes were soaked, and a strange dark liquid clung to his sleeves. The servant bowed quickly and announced, "My lord… this man was caught sneaking inside the castle. He was found mixing some kind of black water with herbs in the horse-stable."
A heavy silence spread across the hall. Branth's expression changed at once—his eyes narrowed, a shadow of confusion crossing his face. "Lock him up," he ordered sharply. "I will question him myself." But before turning away, he cast a brief, unreadable glance toward Lyna—as if something about the intruder stirred a question he could not speak aloud. Lyna met his eyes without understanding, and Branth left the hall with long, tense steps. The guests, sensing trouble, began leaving the room, their whispers echoing softly as the hall slowly emptied.
The scene shifted to Tyler's chamber, where she and Lyna sat close together, the faint light of a candle flickering between them. Outside, guards marched the intruder toward the dungeon, their footsteps echoing through the cold corridor. From their room, the girls could hear faint voices—muffled, strained, but clear enough to catch pieces of the man's desperate pleading.
That night, after talking for hours, Tyler and Lyna finally drifted to sleep on the same bed, their breaths soft and steady beneath the warm blankets. The castle grew silent around them, the only sound the distant howl of the cold Medown wind.
Far away, across the sea on Haunt Island, the woman in black stepped into a dark chamber deep within the ruined castle. There she spoke with a man—around fifty years old—his long tangled hair and untrimmed white beard giving him the look of someone who had not bathed in many days. His eyes were sharp despite his wild appearance, and the two of them talked quietly, their voices low and cautious. Though no names were spoken, it was clear their discussion circled around a girl far from the island… and the dangerous magic that surrounded her. As their words echoed through the stone hall, another figure entered—a young man around twenty-five or thirty, strikingly handsome, his skin pale as winter snow, his hair and beard dark as midnight. Wearing a gleaming chest-armor and carrying a sword at his side, he stepped forward with a faint smile.
"Will it truly be that easy?" he asked calmly.
The woman—Taibitha Haunt—turned to him, her lips curving in a confident, knowing smile.
"Why not…?" she replied softly. "It will happen. Certainly."
Rigal's smile faded as he looked at Taibitha, his voice lowering into a harsher tone. "Do you even realize," he said, "how many years it has been since you returned… and now you come back only to have a child killed and drag an old family feud into something even darker?" His words struck the cold stone walls, and for a moment the air tightened between them. Taibitha's eyes narrowed, anger flickering beneath her calm. "You think I chose this?" she replied sharply. "You think I wanted to return to the ruins of a war none of us ended?"
Rigal stepped closer, jaw tense. "You left," he growled. "You walked away when everything fell apart. And now you stand here as if this island still belongs to you." Her voice dropped, heavy with old wounds. "I walked away because staying would have destroyed me. But you—" she paused, her gaze cutting through him—"you stayed and let the past rot inside you."
Before their argument could rise further, the old man cleared his throat. The wild-haired elder—Ozar—lifted his head and said firmly, "Enough. The time has come to begin."
Rigal turned sharply toward him. "No. Not now. It isn't the right moment. Please—first return to the castle. Mother and Sir Black are already there."
But Taibitha only stared into Rigal's eyes, her expression unblinking, filled with a cold, determined fire. "I have waited far too long for this moment," she whispered. "I will not leave until it is done."
Night had fallen deeply—an ink-black darkness with only the sharp wind howling across the frozen plains. Outside the castle gates, a fire burned in a circle of stacked wood, its flames shivering brightly against the winter air. Through this glow walked a woman dressed in a long red gown that trailed behind her like spilled blood upon the snow. Upon her head rested a crown marked with the symbol of two swans, carved so delicately it seemed almost alive. In her hands she carried a small bowl filled with black water and a dry leaf, frozen stiff.
She entered the castle.
Inside waited a vast chamber, cold and silent, and at its center stood a massive bowl brimmed with water. Without hesitation, the woman poured the black water into it. At that very same moment—far across the sea, in the ruined hall where Taibitha Haunt stood—Taibitha was doing the exact same ritual. She too poured black water into a bowl before her.
Then, as if bound by one unseen thread, both women lifted their wrists and drew a small cut across their skin. Drops of their blood fell into the water.
Rigal watched, unable to step forward, confusion tightening his face as the two rituals—miles apart—mirrored one another with terrifying precision.
The water in both bowls trembled.
Then, with a sound like a breath turning into a scream—
the water burst into flame.
Not ordinary fire, but a fierce red blaze, rising high, swallowing the bowls, the rooms, and the silence with it.
Just as the red flames settled back into the trembling bowls, heavy footsteps echoed through the vast chamber. A man emerged from the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a crown of dark iron upon his head. He was Twin Hodril, the feared King of Hodril House, North Fell. His sharp eyes fixed on the woman in the red dress as he asked in a low, steady voice,
"Is it done? Has what was meant to happen finally begun?"
The woman slowly lifted her gaze toward him, her lips curling into a calm yet terrifying smile.
"Yes," she replied softly. "Now no power in this world can stop it."
The scene shifted back to Medown House. Tyler and Lyna lay asleep beside each other, wrapped in warm blankets, their breathing slow and peaceful. Suddenly, the silence of the night was shattered by a terrifying scream—loud, sharp, and filled with unbearable fear.
Tyler did not wake, but Lyna stirred. Though her eyes were still closed, the echo of the scream rang clearly in her ears. Slowly, she opened her eyes and sat up—and in the very next heartbeat, the world around her changed. She was no longer on the bed beside Tyler. She stood trapped in a frozen forest, surrounded by massive, twisted trees and ground covered in thick white snow. In the distance, a small broken hut stood alone in the cold.
Dark roots from the trees wrapped tightly around Lyna's body, holding her in place as she struggled to breathe. Then, from deep within the forest, a wolf's terrifying howl rose into the air—followed instantly by the desperate scream of a young girl.