Tashlan – Royal Guest Quarters, Year 8002 A.A.
Night pressed heavily against the stone bones of Tashlan Palace, its breath thick with incense and ancient memory. In the royal guest quarters, candlelight danced along the emerald drapes that draped the high walls like hanging gardens, the gold embroidery glinting softly as if whispering secrets of conquest. Beyond the window's arch, Tashlan sprawled under moonlight: a city of marble and shadow, where bonfires burned in every square and war-drums thundered their warning into the bones of stone.
King Azubuike Toran stood at the window, framed by that restless city glow. His black-and-white panther paws were silent against the obsidian floor, and the emerald folds of his robe caught the flicker of candle flame with each subtle breath. Violet eyes, so often warm among his people, were now cold mirrors that reflected only the restless sprawl of Carlon's capital: towers sharp as tusks, spires painted with banners bearing the dragon-serpent devouring its own tail.
Beyond the hush of the chamber, distant cheers rose—a fevered chorus drawn by the promise of the Grand Tournament. But here, in this quiet room gilded with Carlon's wealth, a chill settled like a forgotten debt.
Trevor Maymum lay sprawled across the guest bed, head tipped back against embroidered pillows. His brown fur caught the candlelight in soft gold, and his glasses gleamed like twin moons. The muffler shadowed the smirk that tugged at the edge of his mouth.
"Smells like a trap," he murmured, his words drifting lazily into the scented air. "They line the field with roses, but there's a pit at the center. That's not hospitality—it's bait. Subtle as a boar's tusk."
By the door stood Ekene Çelik, silent as a carved idol. The cheetah's posture was soldier-straight, crimson sash drawn tight across his chest, his obsidian-toned robe embroidered with runes that glimmered faintly with hidden spells. The rhythm of his breathing matched the beat of drums outside: slow, measured, resolute.
"It's not a duel," Ekene said at last, voice quiet, threaded with iron. "It's a bloodrite cloaked in spectacle."
Trevor's ears twitched, glasses tilting as he turned. "Meaning?"
Ekene didn't look at him; his gaze remained fixed beyond the shuttered window. "Carlon's tournament is consecration to Ferez—the Inexorable. God of submission and conquest. The last to fall becomes his offering, their death sealing the cycle."
Trevor shifted, humor slipping from his eyes. "They want a sacrifice."
"To feed prophecy," Ekene confirmed. "And they expect the blood to be ours."
For a moment, silence filled the chamber. The candles guttered in a stray draft, shadows trembling across the polished walls.
"They're championing the prince?" Toran asked, voice low as distant thunder.
"Erezhan," Ekene answered. "He's fought for over a century. Not a single challenger has broken his guard."
Trevor snorted, rolling onto his side. "Of course it's him." His paw drifted to the Arya of Derision, the spiral-marked headband that caught the candlelight like a whispered promise. "They want him crowned by blood. Ours."
Toran turned, violet gaze sharp. "You've got that look, Trevor."
Trevor lifted an eyebrow. "What look?"
Ekene's lips twitched, the closest he came to a smile. "The same look you had before the siege of Uthlan."
Trevor flexed his claws lightly. "That was a good day."
"You're volunteering," Toran said—not quite a question.
"I'm Hazël #2," Trevor replied, the smirk returning, softer but steady. "I know my limits. Haven't found them yet."
Ekene's ears flicked, breath easing out. "We remember the Temple of Silence," he murmured. "And the storm you left behind."
Trevor flicked his glasses higher. "Still can't prove that was me."
Toran's expression softened, but his words were solemn. "If you fight, you don't fight for your own legend alone. You carry Kürdiala's honor, the faith of Narn, and the hope of all free folk."
"I'll carry it," Trevor said. His gaze steadied, voice dropping low. "And I'll make sure Carlon remembers who we are."
Toran inclined his head, the lines of his face easing—if only for a breath. Beyond the window, drums rose in the deepening night, as if answering a challenge yet unspoken.
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True Kürdiala – Moonlit Cliffs
Far from Tashlan's fevered heart, past sand-swept dunes and quiet valleys, lay the moonlit cliffs of True Kürdiala. Here, the desert ended, and the stone fell away into an abyss alive with floating mana-crystals. Their glow shimmered like distant stars, each pulse throwing ripples of blue and gold across the pale grass. Night-blooms perfumed the air with sweetness so heady it seemed almost to still the breath.
Adam Kurt sat at the cliff's edge, bare wolf paws pressing into the cool soil. His blindfold caught the crescent moonlight, the fabric stirring gently in the breeze. Beside him, the sheathed hilt of Hisame lay in the grass—its silence deeper than sleep, its presence heavy as memory.
The cliffs felt timeless tonight: old as the first song, unburdened by kingdoms or war. Yet even here, silence was never truly alone.
"You've grown silent," came the voice—a low murmur, ancient as stone, alive in every syllable.
Adam did not turn. "Lord Kurtcan," he acknowledged, voice soft.
"I sense a change in you," Kurtcan said. "A stillness."
Adam's fingers curled into the grass. "I made peace with Kon," he murmured. "I thought he wouldn't forgive me… but he did."
"And so he was meant to," Kurtcan replied, his voice gentler than Adam had ever heard it.
Adam lowered his head. "Since then… it feels like something that twisted inside me for so long finally let go."
"Peace, little wolf, is earned," Kurtcan said. "And you bled to earn it. Let it stay."
For a moment, Adam simply breathed. The grass whispered under the night wind, the mana-crystals far below pulsing like a thousand hearts.
"May I ask you something?" Adam said.
"Always."
"Why didn't you pass on—like the other First Lords? Why remain in the Arcem? Why bind yourself?"
The question drifted into the night, heavier than the stones that lined the cliff's edge.
Kurtcan was silent at first. Then, when he spoke, his voice seemed to resonate from every crystal and every shadow.
"I'm glad you asked. Your father never dared. Your mother wondered, but never asked aloud. Yet you… you carry questions like other men carry scars."
Adam tilted his head, ears pricked.
"In the age before memory, when we stood against the Great Evil," Kurtcan began, "we believed victory would forge an unbroken dawn. That peace would become the inheritance of all our children."
"And then?" Adam whispered.
"I turned my eyes forward," Kurtcan said, voice lowering. "I saw beyond the pattern of fate… and found nothing."
The breeze off the cliffs turned colder.
"No form. No time. Not even shadow. Only the end beyond ends: uncreation. A silence so complete it erases the meaning of all that came before."
Through the bond they shared, Adam saw it too: an emptiness beyond darkness, a void that did not hunger—because even hunger had no place there.
Adam's breath hitched, paws digging into the earth. "You saw the world's death," he whispered.
"Not death," Kurtcan corrected softly. "Oblivion. And I could not walk away. Not then, not ever. So I left myself behind. I bound my essence as Arcem, passed it to my second son, Lona. His brother, Luna, carried the Arya of Creation. Between them, they bore my will and my hope."
Adam swallowed, voice hoarse. "Then… I carry both?"
"You do," Kurtcan said. "Their blood and mine. Luna's spark in your heart, Lona's strength at your side."
Adam lowered his head. "Why me?"
"Because you were born in the moment the pattern cracked," Kurtcan said. "You are its answer."
The night grew still again. The moon hung silent, ancient and watching.
Adam lay back, paws behind his head. The scent of night-blooms folded around him like an embrace. Hisame pulsed faintly, a quiet heartbeat.
Then, as if from nowhere, a lullaby drifted on the wind. Soft, gentle, and achingly familiar:
> "Hush, my moon, my shining light…
Dream in warmth through silent night…"
Adam's eyes pricked behind the blindfold. "Mother…"
"Let it anchor you," Kurtcan whispered. "Let it remind you who you are, and why you must not break."
The wind curled through the grass, carrying memory and hope alike.
The lullaby faded. Stars brightened overhead. And Adam slept—no longer alone in the vast silence of the world.