A dark portal tore open in the heart of a frozen wasteland, its jagged edges crackling with unnatural energy. Snow whipped violently through the air as a blistering storm howled across the desolate landscape. In the distance, an ancient castle stood half-buried under thick layers of ice and snow, its towers like silent sentinels against the raging white.
From the swirling portal stepped a hooded witch, her ragged cloak snapping in the wind. With a lazy swirl of her fingers, she levitated Yiva beside her, the girl's body drifting lifelessly through the storm like a broken doll.
Yiva's face was twisted in silent agony. She clutched her head, palms pressed hard against her temples, muttering broken words that dissolved before they could fully form.
With a single flick of her bony finger, the witch caused the massive doors of the abandoned castle to groan open.
"Uppljúka," she rasped, her voice crooked and terrifying, like nails scraping across ancient stone.
The enchanted doors responded with a deep, metallic click. Heavy chains and runes glowed briefly before the entrance swung wide, revealing a pitch-black interior.
The witch glided inside without hesitation. Yiva's floating body followed obediently behind her.
The doors slammed shut with a thunderous boom, swallowing them both into darkness.
Somewhere in Greenwood…
The dream began softly.
A younger Yiva laughed as she ran through sunlit meadows, playing with Garon. The dreamer followed closely, her heart warm, watching her daughter's every joyful step. But in an instant, little Yiva stumbled and fell into a deep, dark pit.
"Help!" the dreamer cried, rushing forward.
She turned away for only a second.
When she looked back, a pale, blue-tinged face lunged out of the darkness — Yiva's face, but horribly wrong. Her eyes were completely white, lifeless, and filled with terror.
"Ahhhhh!!!"
The dreamer jolted upright in bed, gasping for air. Cold sweat poured down her face, soaking her nightgown. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe.
"Yiva… my daughter…" she whispered, wiping the sweat from her brow with trembling hands.
She glanced at the empty space beside her on the large royal bed.
"Where is he now?" she muttered, rising to her feet.
Grabbing a lamp, she slipped out of the room and moved quietly through the dimly lit corridors of the castle. She stopped before a heavy wooden door and knocked softly.
Knock… knock…
Inside, the King sat at his desk, surrounded by scattered books and maps, his face etched with exhaustion. She gently pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind her.
"You didn't come to bed," she said, approaching him.
"What are you doing up so late, woman?" he replied gruffly, not looking up.
"That's no way to speak to your wife," she said calmly, placing the lamp on his desk. She reached out and gently touched the side of his head.
"I had a dream," she continued.
"A dream?"
"About Yiva. I feel it… something is wrong. I can sense it."
The King sighed and finally looked at her. "Don't trouble yourself. I received word from the man I sent. She's been seen. They will make contact soon."
"When was that?" she asked sharply.
"A week ago."
"A week?!" Her voice rose. "So many things could have happened to her in a week! What about Garon? Have you heard anything from our boy?"
She bit nervously at her fingers. "You're just sitting here reading while your children are missing. Have you forgotten that Garon is your heir?"
"Shut up, woman!" the King snapped, rising suddenly and slapping her across the face.
She recoiled, turning to leave, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
"Leave me!" she cried, struggling against his grip.
He eventually softened, drawing her close and pulling her onto his lap despite her weak resistance. She hit his chest slowly, tears welling in her eyes.
"Curse you…" she whispered, gradually calming in his arms.
"Shhh," he murmured, stroking her hair. "Don't worry. I'll go myself to find the children. But first… there's something urgent I must deal with."
She pushed his arm away, eyes flashing with anger. "What could possibly be more urgent than our children's lives?"
The King's expression darkened.
"I fear the end of the Four Great Nations is near."
She stared at him, intrigued despite her fear. "What are you saying?"
"Fifty years of war… The bastards have risen. Their promised savior is already waging war across the lands. He commands the most skilled warriors, blessed by the gods themselves. They call him… the Monarch."
"The Monarch?" She covered her mouth with both hands. "Don't tell me…"
Somewhere North…
Screams echoed across the snow-covered battlefield as the Monarch's knights slaughtered the last of the enemy forces. Blood stained the white ground crimson. Freed prisoners and slaves with distinctive silver-laced hair fell to their knees in awe as the Monarch passed among them.
An old woman, once a slave, reached out with trembling hands as he approached.
"It's really you…" she whispered, touching his face in disbelief.
"Mother," he said softly, "I'm back."
Tears filled her eyes. He rose to his full height, his presence commanding and terrifying.
"Release them," he ordered.
His knights moved swiftly, breaking the chains of every silver-haired prisoner. One by one, they knelt before their king.
"My people," the Monarch said, his voice cold and powerful, "you have suffered. You have been molested, beaten, raped, and dragged through the dirt like animals. While the true animals…" — he pointed at a group of bound delegates dragged forward — "…are these men here."
"So-called delegates," he spat. "Rotten with greed. Slugs who took pleasure in raping our women."
He looked at the captives with icy eyes. "What judgment do you say should befall such people?"
"We're sorry!" one of them begged. "They made us do it!"
"Death," the Monarch declared coldly, "is the only punishment."
A roar erupted. The freed slaves — men, women, boys, and girls — snatched up stones from the bloodied ground.
"Death!" they screamed, rushing forward.
They stoned the four delegates to death in a frenzy. Blood splattered across faces and clothes as the stones rose and fell.
When it was over, the Monarch looked at his people, eyes burning with purpose.
"This is only the beginning," he said. "We will take the Four Kingdoms and show these bastards who we truly are."
"Yeah!" they roared, lifting their bloodied stones high.
Somewhere far away…
"I'm starving," Cottage muttered, riding wearily.
"We haven't stopped for hours," he continued, glancing at Garon. "He just keeps pushing forward."
Garon ignored him.
"Dot, please," Astrid said gently, riding beside him. "I know you're eager to reach Yiva. We all are. But we need rest. It's getting late."
Dot turned his horse toward a distant town without a word.
"Finally," Cottage sighed in relief.
Garon urged his horse past Cottage and rode up beside Dot.
"What did I do?" Garon asked quietly.
From a ridge far behind them, two figures watched the group intently.
"So that's them," a voice male the father leader of the red fangs ."
"We've found them," he added, turning toward Whisper, who was twirling playfully like a ballerina, a disturbing grin on her face.
"Did you see the girl?" Whisper giggled. "I'd like to play with her again…"
"And the boy?" the Hound asked, spinning his axe lazily in his hand. "It's time I paid him another visit."
To be continued..