Atop the Great Wall, rising proud and unyielding among the grim cliffs of Blackrock Valley, the morning began as it always did at the Eastern Watchpost. The soldiers stood firm upon the long stretch of stone fortification, their eyes fixed toward the Fallen South—a barren, forsaken land that sprawled beyond the wall.
But this morning felt different.
The sky was darker than usual, almost as if the sun itself hesitated to rise. Black clouds rolled over the horizon, heavy and thick, like a curtain drawn across the world. In the distance, thunder rumbled—deep and relentless, echoing across the still earth.
The wind blew harder than it should have, whipping the soldiers' cloaks and sending the banner of Estravar—bearing its golden lion on a red field—snapping wildly in the air. A few of them shifted in place, pulling their fur-lined cloaks tighter as the chill began to bite through bone.
In the midst of the quiet tension cloaking the watchpost, Lord Gerin Falbringer, Commander of the Estravar Wall, stepped out from his chambers. His stride was firm as he climbed the stone stairs to the top. A pair of leather gloves wrapped his hands—hands hardened by years of gripping a sword.
As he reached the summit, his eyes immediately found the figure of Corin, his ever-loyal aide. The young man stood near the wall's edge, one hand resting on the cold stone, his gaze fixed toward the gloom in the south.
Lord Gerin approached, his voice deep and commanding as he spoke from behind.
"What is it, Corin?"
Corin snapped out of his reverie, quickly turning and bowing. "Good morning, my lord."
Gerin nodded. Corin looked south again before speaking, his voice tinged with hesitation. "In all my time here, I've never seen clouds that black."
He glanced sideways at Gerin. "Have you ever seen anything like it, my lord?"
Lord Gerin stepped beside him, eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkened horizon. He drew in the cold morning air, sensing something foreign in it—something that should not have been there.
After a moment, his voice came low and grave. "No. I haven't."
Suddenly, the wind surged with unnatural strength. Its gust slammed against the bannerpole of Estravar, shaking it violently before it tore free from its brace and crashed onto the stone floor with a sharp, jarring clang.
The red banner with the golden lion now lay crumpled on the ground, part of its fabric pinned beneath the weight of the fallen pole.
Lord Gerin stepped forward, intent on retrieving it, but a hand reached out and stopped him.
"Allow me, my lord," said Corin quickly, his tone calm yet reverent.
Gerin looked at him briefly, then gave a single nod and stepped back. Corin knelt, lifting the banner with care before rising to restore it to its place.
As Corin worked to resecure the Estravar banner, hurried footsteps echoed up the stone stairway.
Two guards emerged from below, breathless, their faces drawn tight with tension—as if they had seen something they were never meant to witness.
They bowed swiftly, and one of them spoke, still panting, "My lord, there's something you must know at once."
Lord Gerin narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong. He glanced at Corin, who had just finished fixing the banner, then returned his attention to the soldiers.
"What is it?" he asked, voice low and authoritative.
One of the soldiers swallowed hard before replying. "My lord... the Central Post along the wall—it's empty. No one's there. Not a single guard from Snotrezia."
Lord Gerin's eyes widened, his jaw tightening. If the Central Post was empty… then something had happened to the Snotrezian garrison. Something dire enough to silence them all without warning.
Corin stepped closer, brows furrowed. "Since when?" he asked.
The soldier responded quickly, "Since this morning. We saw no movement. No one."
Silence fell. Only the sound of wind brushing over the stone wall remained, whispering with a sense of impending dread.
Then, without another word, Lord Gerin turned abruptly and strode toward the stairs. "Corin, with me."
Corin did not hesitate and followed immediately. But as they descended, Gerin suddenly halted mid-step. He turned and fixed his gaze on the two soldiers.
"Put the garrison on high alert. Lock all gates. Double the watch on every section of the wall. If anything moves out there, I want to know before it touches the first stone of this fort."
The soldiers straightened at once and replied sharply, "Yes, my lord!" before hurrying off to carry out their orders.
Lord Gerin resumed his descent, moving faster now. Corin followed close behind, silent but watchful.
A troubling thought nagged at the back of his mind. Why was the Central Post abandoned? Had Snotrezia ordered a withdrawal without notice? Or had something... silenced them all in the dark?
They arrived at Lord Gerin's chambers—a modest war room lined with maps, scrolls, and open tomes strewn across a large wooden desk at its center. The lantern overhead swayed gently, casting long shadows on the stone walls.
In one corner stood an old bookshelf, stacked with aging volumes and ancient scrolls. Lord Gerin let out a breath.
"Find me the Codex of Kings, Corin."
Meanwhile, Gerin began rifling through the mess on his desk, searching for a quill that had disappeared somewhere beneath the clutter. He grunted softly in frustration at the disarray.
Corin stepped toward the shelf, his fingers trailing along the spines of old books. It didn't take long for him to find it—a thick, weathered tome with its leather edges peeling and a layer of dust coating the cover, untouched for years.
Carefully, Corin pulled it free and brought it to the table, placing it before Lord Gerin, who took it without a word.
As Gerin turned the pages, his eyes scanned the aged text with careful focus. Corin stood beside the desk, quietly observing. A chill wind crept in through the cracks in the stone, stirring the lantern's flame.
The atmosphere grew heavier, as if the old book held more than just law and doctrine.
At last, Lord Gerin found the title he sought, but his aging eyes struggled with the small script. He sighed and handed the book to Corin.
"Read it for me," he said, still rummaging through the desk in search of that elusive quill.
Corin took the book and flipped to the indicated page. His brows furrowed for a moment before he began to read aloud, "In the months of guard rotation, every king is obliged to ensure—"
"Not that one," Lord Gerin interrupted before Corin could finish the sentence. "Try the next page."
Corin turned the page and continued, his voice now sharper. "Should there be found any guard post left vacant or manned by fewer than fifty heads, the king served by those men shall be deemed in breach of his sacred oath and must surrender the lands of his post along the Great Wall to the commander of another kingdom's guard. To whom it shall be given will be decided by trial to the death."
At those words, Lord Gerin—who had been rummaging for his quill—fell still. He looked up at Corin with an unreadable expression. "The King must know of this…" he murmured, almost to himself, before grumbling again, "Now where in the damned abyss is that quill?"
Seeing his commander struggle, Corin bent down to assist. Beneath the table, something caught his eye. The feathered quill lay there, nestled between fallen scrolls. He picked it up and straightened.
"My lord," Corin called, handing over the quill.
Lord Gerin took it with a huff, frustration still etched in his gaze. "Cursed thing," he muttered, dipping it into the ink.
He then took a small scroll from another table, unfurled it, and began to write swiftly. The scratching of the quill across parchment filled the room as Corin stood silently, watching without a word.
When the writing was done, Lord Gerin rolled the scroll tightly and sealed it with red wax, pressing his signet ring firmly onto it. He weighed it briefly in his hand before offering it to Corin.
"Send a pigeon to Red-Eriel. At once."
Corin received the scroll with a sharp nod. "Yes, my lord," he said, bowing before striding out with firm steps.
Now alone, Lord Gerin leaned back into his chair with a heavy sigh. His gaze drifted to the feathered quill on the table—white goose feather, now stained slightly at the tip. He stared at it for a moment, then picked it up and ran his thumb along its barbs.
Not wanting to lose it again, he tucked the quill into the thick braid of his beard. A crooked grin tugged at his lips as he muttered to it, "You're not going anywhere now."
That afternoon, the sun blazed fiercely over Red-Eriel, casting long shadows between the red-bricked buildings that defined the Estravari capital. The main streets bustled with life. Merchants shouted out their wares—silks from Oceareest, spices from the eastern coast, silver jewelry crafted by local artisans. At the corners, blacksmiths pounded steel with rhythmic strikes, while children darted through the crowds with joyous laughter.
Atop the city's main gate, the guards lounged in ease, enjoying the occasional breeze that cut through the sweltering heat. But the calm swiftly changed when, from a distance, a large mounted procession began to approach. Dust rose in the air as a long line of knights advanced, crimson banners bearing the golden lion sigil snapping above their lances.
"It's His Majesty's host!" cried one of the guards atop the gate.
The soldiers immediately straightened, realizing this was no ordinary troop—it was King Loran Thazeiros himself, returning with his son, Prince Leon.
As they entered the city, the horses slowed, allowing the people a clearer view of their sovereigns. Cheers erupted from the roadside. Some bowed low, while others clapped and called out in welcome.
Seeing the crowd, Leon glanced toward his father and said, "They love you, Patar."
Loran turned slightly toward his son, his face as composed as ever. "A king does not seek his people's love, Leon," he said, voice deep and measured. "If love comes, let it grow from respect and justice—not from weakness or fear."
Leon frowned, but listened intently. "So… you don't care whether they love you?"
Loran exhaled softly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "I care. But that's not the purpose. A king must be a pillar to his realm—someone dependable, who upholds the law, and shields his people."
Leon gave a slow nod. "But even a cruel king can keep a realm strong, can't he? A king who is feared will keep his people obedient."
Loran turned, gaze piercing. "Fear can make them obey—but never loyal. If you rule only through fear, one day, when they find courage, they will abandon you. A good king must be more than feared, Leon. He must be respected."
Leon fell silent, reflecting on those words.
As they neared the palace compound, the massive gate with its thick stone fortifications began to open slowly, heavy iron chains creaking in the air. The royal guards stood tall on either side, forming a corridor of steel for the king and prince.
As their horses crossed the threshold into the wide palace courtyard, the noise from the streets faded, replaced by the solemn grandeur of the towering structure before them.
Within the palace grounds, the air felt cooler, though the sun still blazed above. The great stone slabs under their horses' hooves radiated warmth, and in the distance, a fountain at the heart of the royal gardens gurgled softly.
At the foot of the grand staircase leading into the palace, Lord Roderick Frost, The King's Chancellor, awaited. His stance was upright, clad in a long gray cloak embroidered with silver threads shaped like chains—symbols of wisdom and strength. His sharp eyes followed every motion with careful precision. Behind him, the royal guards stood in perfect formation, their armor gleaming beneath the sun.
Loran inhaled deeply, then dismounted with regal ease. His crimson cloak drifted behind him, the golden embroidery of leaves and vines glinting subtly. Leon followed close behind.
Lord Roderick stepped forward and bowed deeply. "Welcome home, Your Majesty."
King Loran responded with a slight nod, his voice steady and assured. "Good to see you, Lord Erick."
Then Lord Roderick turned to Leon, bowing once more. "My Prince."
Leon returned the greeting with a small smile. "My lord."
The sun still blazed in the sky, while a subtle tension hung in the air, as if something unspoken lingered between them.
Loran began to ascend the steps toward the castle doors, his shadow stretching across the cold marble floor as he stepped inside. Lord Roderick and Sir Nutrin followed at a slower pace. The air within the castle felt cooler than the scorching heat outside.
Behind them, Leon remained standing beside his horse. Holding the reins in one hand, he watched his father drift further away before finally calling out, "Patar…"
Loran stopped and turned, his eyes sharp yet gentle. He understood what his son meant without needing to ask. In silence, he raised his hand in a gesture of permission.
Leon gave a faint smile, then lowered his head slightly in gratitude before mounting his horse again. With a light tug of the reins, he urged the horse forward. Sir Eryk followed closely behind on his black steed, ever faithful.
Loran and the others watched them go until they disappeared through the castle gates, then continued walking inside.
Within the palace, the towering walls adorned with Estravar's sigil gleamed beneath the sunlight pouring through the grand windows. Their footsteps echoed along the stone floor, and servants they passed bowed respectfully.
As they reached the main hall, Lord Roderick glanced hesitantly at the king before finally saying, "Your Majesty, a pigeon arrived from the Great Wall."
Loran, in the midst of removing his heavy cloak, let out a quiet sigh. He handed the crimson garment to Sir Nutrin, who accepted it without a word. The king's voice sounded weary as he replied, "I've ridden long enough." Without quickening his pace, he continued walking toward the royal chambers, Sir Nutrin trailing behind, vigilant as always.
As they neared the door, Loran turned slightly toward Lord Roderick and said, "Let me rest for a while, my lord. You may drown me in matters tonight." Lord Roderick fell silent for a moment before bowing, allowing his king the rest he deserved.
Beyond the city, Leon and Sir Eryk rode along a rocky road stretching between small fields and thickening wild trees. Their destination was the Iris-Dell Forest, not far from Red-Eriel, a place where the air was cooler and peace could be found beneath the shaded canopy.
But their journey halted when something on the roadside caught their attention.
A shattered cart. Its wheel broken, wooden planks scattered, and sacks—once filled with trade goods—now torn and empty.
Beside it lay the body of an old man, blood still soaking the soil around him. Leon and Sir Eryk dismounted swiftly. Sir Eryk moved closer, crouching as he gently turned the man's body over. A knife was buried deep in his chest. The man's eyes were wide open, lifeless, yet terror still etched on his face. Sir Eryk touched the blood pooling beneath and frowned.
"This happened just moments ago," he murmured.
Leon stared at the corpse with pity, fists clenched at his sides. But before he could speak, a piercing scream rang out from within the woods to their right.
They turned immediately. Sir Eryk narrowed his eyes, spotting faint tracks in the soil, signs of someone dragged into the trees. Leon didn't hesitate. He rushed to his horse, drew his sword from its sheath, and sprinted toward the sound.
"Wait, My Prince!" Sir Eryk called, stepping quickly to grab Leon's arm. "They could hurt you," he warned, voice tense. Leon shot a sharp look at his knight. With a rough motion, he shook off Eryk's grip and continued running, disappearing into the forest. Sir Eryk clicked his tongue but had no choice. Drawing his own sword, he dashed after Leon into the deepening shadows.
In the forest, where the canopy thickened and darkness spread like a curtain, two brutish men dragged a struggling woman. Her breath was ragged, face full of terror.
They slammed her against the trunk of a massive tree, forcing her upright as they tied her wrists around the bark, rendering her helpless.
She screamed, begging for mercy, but only received cruel laughter and a heavy slap across the face. Her head whipped sideways, lips split and bleeding. One of them grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.
"Shut up, you filthy bitch," the man hissed.
The other one laughed, his gaze crawling over her trembling body with disgusting hunger. "No one's going to save you here."
They began stripping their clothes, tossing cloaks and belts onto the forest floor. Grinning wickedly, one of them grabbed the woman's collar and yanked it downward, tearing the fabric open, exposing her chest and belly.
But before they could go any further, a loud voice echoed through the trees.
"In the name of King Loran Thazeiros, cease your vile acts, you beasts!"
The voice struck like thunder, slicing through the forest's silence.
The two men froze, then turned sharply.
Through the trees, Leon stood with his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, his face filled with fury. For a moment, the men exchanged glances—and then they laughed.
"Well, look who it is! A pampered little princeling in noble robes!" one jeered, grinning wide.
"You think you can stop us, little boy?" the other sneered, reaching for his sword.
Leon did not flinch. He raised his blade, its tip pointing straight at the man's chest. His eyes blazed with wrath.
"By the gods, you'll pay for this with your life."
The man snorted, stepping closer with a mocking tone. "By the gods, I'll shove my cock down your loud little mouth, boy!"
But before he could raise his sword, his body jerked violently. His eyes widened, mouth agape and voiceless. A long blade pierced through his chest from behind, its tip protruding through his heart.
Blood streamed down the steel, running over his bare skin.
Sir Eryk stood behind him, face cold as stone. With a sharp motion, he yanked the sword free, and the man's body collapsed.
The remaining brute roared and charged at Sir Eryk, swinging his sword.
But the knight was faster. He parried easily, steel clashing in the air. With a swift move, Eryk slammed his left elbow into the man's head. The blow sent him crashing to the ground.
Leon ran to the woman. Drawing his dagger, he cut the rough ropes binding her wrists. Her skin was raw and bleeding from the tight restraints.
Without hesitation, Leon removed his crimson cloak and wrapped it around her. She trembled, arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes fixed downward in terror.
Leon knelt, trying to meet her gaze. When she finally looked up, her deep brown eyes met his.
For a moment, the world went silent. Something in her eyes rooted him in place.
With a gentle voice, he whispered, "You're safe now."
She stared at him—and suddenly collapsed forward, clutching him tightly, sobbing. "Thank you… thank you…" she cried between gasps.
Leon was stunned but careful not to touch her carelessly. Slowly, he raised his hand and softly stroked her back, trying to calm her.
From the side, Sir Eryk watched, eyes narrowed. Leon noticed, then glanced meaningfully at him, signaling toward the unconscious man.
Understanding, Sir Eryk approached, grabbed the man's arm, bound his wrists, and shook him awake.
The man groaned, gradually returning to consciousness. When he realized he was bound, his eyes went wide in fury and fear.
The woman, now steadier on her feet, glared at the kneeling man. Her jaw tightened—and without hesitation, she spat in his face.
Leon rose slowly, staring at the man with a thoughtful expression. The man's eyes flicked nervously, sensing his fate now lay in the hands of a young prince.
Sir Eryk looked at Leon blankly before asking, "What shall we do with him?"
Leon didn't answer immediately. He sighed, tilted his head slightly—as if struck by an amusing idea. His gaze returned to the man, and a faint smile curled at the edge of his lips.
"I think I know what I'll do," he said casually.
He looked back at Sir Eryk with an unreadable expression, then added with quiet amusement,
"Fortunately, I forgot to bring a snack for Ridrar."
Sir Eryk narrowed his eyes slightly, but before he could say anything, Leon turned again to face the kneeling man. His smile turned into a smirk, and with casual menace, he winked. The man's face drained of all color.