Dreamcrown – The Outer Courtyards of the Royal Palace
Where shadows tangled with the flicker of torches, Ser Darren moved like a hunted specter. The cold air pursued his breath, rising as pale clouds into the darkness.
Darren: "Where are they?! Where is King Irvin Luskarth and Duke Lucas Nightover?!" he shouted at the guard by the eastern gate, but the man's evasive eyes betrayed his unease.
Guard: "We… have not seen him today, Commander."
With a trembling hand, Darren shoved the guard aside and rushed toward the western wing. His footsteps thundered madly across the marble floor, like the beats of a clock tearing apart the silence of a dying night.
In the dim corridors, where the servants' eyes hid behind curtains of fear, his voice broke as he demanded: "The King? Where is the King?" But their heads shook in denial, their gazes sliding away from his frantic stare. Their fingers interlaced in terror, as if the mere mention of the King's name had become a crime.
Darren: "And the Duke? Lucas Nightover?" His voice nearly shattered.
An elderly maid trembled like autumn leaves and whispered: "We… have not seen him since yesterday morning, my lord."
Darren seized her shoulders violently, shouting: "How?!! How does a King and a Duke vanish on the night of coronation?!"
But no answer came… only a suffocating silence remained, heavy and swollen with the stench of betrayal.
Nausea churned within him. This was no mere disappearance. It was a conspiracy, finely woven—a game of shadows spun in the palace's deepest dark.
He collapsed against a cold wall, its damp stones reeking of mildew. His hands shook as though the ground beneath his feet had begun to quake.
Darren, muttering: "They were here… among us… plotting in silence."
At that moment, he was no longer searching for a King or a Duke. He was chasing a truth capable of turning the world upside down—a truth hidden behind a curtain of blood and shadows.
And worse than all of it… he felt an unseen eye watching him from the darkness. An eye that knew he had begun unraveling the threads of a deadly game.
The Royal Council – The King's Private Chamber of Deliberation
Without waiting, Darren slammed the doors open and stormed into the chamber. There sat Blatir Vanhiem, calm at the head of the round table, surrounded by ministers and lords. They were in the midst of serious discussion, but the moment Darren entered, silence fell at once.
Blatir raised an eyebrow slightly, then moved his hand with casual grace, signaling the others to leave. The nobles exchanged wary glances before bowing and departing one by one… until only a single figure remained with the new king: Ser Variss Sathray, the King's personal guard.
Darren stood facing Blatir, his body taut like a drawn blade, his eyes narrowing with fury as he stared at the man who had usurped the throne. The echo of Darren's heavy breathing filled the hall, until it was cut by a voice—low, yet sharp.
Darren, cold but burning: "Blatir… what have you done…?"
Blatir did not answer immediately. He did not even trouble himself to turn, his gaze fixed instead upon the window overlooking the town, where the lights of celebration were fading into the dusk.
Darren, tension rising: "Where is the King…?"
Only then, without shifting his gaze, Blatir replied in a quiet voice laced with mockery:
Blatir: "You are looking at him."
In a single instant, Ser Darren's fury ignited, unable to contain the storm raging within his chest. His voice thundered, carrying the weight of rage and betrayal.
Darren: "You know what I mean! You bastard!! Where is King Lucas Nightover!!?"
Only then did Blatir turn slowly, a faint, thin smile on his face. He gestured lightly toward Variss to remain calm when he noticed Darren's hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
Blatir, with lethal calm: "I do not know… perhaps he could not bear to watch me crowned today…"
Darren clenched his fist so tightly it trembled, his voice shaking with fury as he stepped forward.
Darren: "It was meant to be his coronation today, yet you dared to crown yourself in his absence?! King Irvin is gone as well. I asked if he had left Dreamcrown, but no one has seen him."
Then, his voice dropped into the growl of a beast: "Just tell me… what have you done, Blatir?"
The new king did not reply. Instead, a faint smile curved his lips before he turned once more toward the palace window, where the night sky was blanketed with heavy clouds, as if mirroring the storm to come…
At that moment, Ser Darren Castro gathered himself, drawing in a deep breath to steady the tempest within. He shifted his gaze away from Blatir, toward the man standing beside him—Ser Variss.
Variss stood rigid in place, betraying no emotion, yet his eyes carried a flicker of unease, of anticipation.
The air thickened until it became almost tangible—a metallic taste of tension and unspoken truths. Torchlight quivered across the ancient stone walls, casting restless shadows that seemed to mirror the uncertainty gripping the hearts of those present.
Darren, his voice low but weighted with judgment: "Ser Variss… I know you are an honorable man. Listen well to what I am about to say."
A subtle shift crossed Variss' face—a faint tightening around the eyes, a near-imperceptible stiffening of his posture. He already felt the gravity hidden within Darren's quiet words.
Darren, continuing, sharp yet measured: "The man who was meant to be crowned today was Duke Lucas Nightover."
Variss hesitated, casting a glance toward Blatir, who stood framed by the arched window, his silhouette outlined against Dreamcrown's storm-darkened sky. For a moment, conflict shadowed the knight's features—duty at war with doubt.
Darren, pressing forward step by step: "And yet, we have heard nothing from King Irvin… nor from Lucas. No word, no sign."
His gaze bore into Variss, as though etching truth directly into the knight's soul: "And while their whereabouts remain unknown… the villain you guard has been crowned king—from nothing!"
Silence followed, thick and choking. The only motion was the restless flicker of torch flames and the distant rumble of thunder beyond the glass.
Then Blatir turned slowly. A cold, faint smile touched his lips, but his eyes were dark—two pools of frozen midnight.
Blatir: "It seems you still put far too much faith in the honor of men, Darren." His voice was deceptive, smooth as velvet wrapped around a blade. "Variss will not bend to your lies. He will not be swayed by your cheap insinuations. Isn't, Ser?"
Variss did not answer. He stood torn between two masters, his loyalty stretched thin across the abyss of treachery.
Darren's gaze hardened. He understood then—this was no battle of swords. This was only the beginning.
He did not shout. He did not draw his blade. Instead, he stood utterly still, his fury refined into something far more dangerous: absolute clarity.
Darren: "Do you know the greatest mistake a man makes," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, yet slicing through the tension with crystalline precision, "when he sits upon a throne that was never his?… No."
He paused, letting the silence itself conspire with him. "It is when he forgets… that silence is not surrender… but the beginning of the hunt."
Another step forward. His words spun through the chamber like threads of frost: "There is a creature in the high mountains where the snow never ceases to fall, and the wind howls like the wailing of lost souls…
the snow leopard."
His eyes locked on Blatir, unblinking, as he continued: "It fears nothing. Dreads no beast, no matter how brave. A silent hunter, glimpsed only in fleeting moments—a phantom moving through storms as if born from the snow itself. It does not waste its strength on reckless chases. It does not strike in anger. It watches. It waits. It lets its prey believe the danger has passed… lets it rest… lets it close its eyes in false peace."
His voice sank lower, intimate, lethal: "Then—just as warmth dares to settle on the snow—something rises from the dark. Not with a roar, but in silence. The fangs find their mark. Life ends between one heartbeat and the next. The prey never realizes death was watching all along."
He fell silent at last, leaving his message hanging in the air like frost after a storm.
Then he turned to leave. At the threshold, he stopped—his back straight, his voice stripped of emotion, yet resonating with dreadful certainty.
Darren: "Enjoy your life, Blatir… as long as the ice has yet to break."
And with that, he was gone.
Blatir did not move. His expression remained a mask of control.
Yet, for the briefest instant—a crack in the king's façade—he felt the chill.
The days passed like long shadows stretching and shrinking, yet the night remained the same—heavy, silent, thick with air no longer pure but saturated with unspoken doubts. The people returned to their homes carrying the dazzling images of the coronation, yet their hearts bore a different weight… the weight of a question no one dared utter aloud.
In the Kingdom of Arcadia, the seasons shifted, and new chapters of history were written, though their ink had not yet dried. It was still damp—smearable, erasable, ready to be rewritten at any moment.
Life was no longer what it had been. Trust was no longer blind, nor loyalty unquestioning. Even in the grand cellars of palaces and the modest homes of common folk, a faint whisper echoed: "Where did they go? Why? Who truly stands behind the throne of Newfear?"
Answers were not easy, and doubt was like a hidden fire—unseen, yet consuming everything in its path.
In the palace, where Blatir sat upon the black throne, he appeared calm, confident, in control… yet he heard the whispers of the past in the silence of night. And he knew predators do not die when caged—they wait for the moment to strike.
Winter was coming… and the ice that seemed solid might prove treacherously thin beneath the surface. And as Darren had once said: "Silence is not surrender… but the beginning of the hunt."
And so, the game continued.
The air in the royal palace was thick enough to carve—stifling, a blend of incense, ambition, and unspoken fear. Raymond paced like a wolf in its cage, his boots whispering against cold marble, questions circling his mind like vultures. Each step echoed down the silent corridor, each turn sharper than the last.
Then—a sound. A door groaning open.
Talia appeared first, her face pale as winter moonlight, followed by Deon, his usual composure collapsed into something unsettled, almost fragile.
Raymond moved toward them, tension coiled across his shoulders. But they offered no solace—only a grave shake of their heads.
Talia: "He hasn't spoken to us at all." Her voice was soft, taut.
Deon clenched his jaw. "He just keeps rambling… swearing revenge on anyone who opposes his rule."
A flash of frustration crossed Raymond's eyes—quick, restrained, but there. He gave a slight nod and turned to leave, but Talia's hand darted out, seizing his arm. Her fingers were cold. Trembling.
Talia: "He…" She faltered, then steadied herself. "He wants to speak with you."
Raymond froze. For a heartbeat, the world itself seemed to stop. Then, without a word, he turned toward the heavy oak door. He pushed it open and stepped into the serpent's den.
The chamber was dim, lit only by the restless dance of fire. And there—standing before the hearth like a lord of shadows—was Blatir Vanhiem, feeding the flames with wood as if stoking the fire of his own reign.
Blatir: "Come closer… son."
The words crept through the room. son. They felt like a velvet-wrapped snare. For a fleeting instant, Raymond did not see the king before him, but the ghost of his father—unstable, furious, lost in the madness that had once consumed their house. But the vision faded, replaced by the cold, calculating figure of the man who now wore the crown.
Raymond stepped forward. Silent. Watchful.
Blatir sighed—a deep, weary exhalation, carrying the weight of stolen thrones and blood-soaked schemes.
Blatir: "I have decided…" His voice was low, deliberate. "You will be my heir."
Raymond held his breath. The words hung between them, raw, inconceivable. He had long since buried any hope of succession—cast it aside when he left Farlom, when he chose a life far from the viper's nest of the court.
Blatir, coldly: "And you may wed that simple girl, if you wish."
He stood heavily. Deliberately: "So—what is your answer? Can you bear this burden?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in. Raymond did not allow himself to think—or to feel. The answer came, swift and sharp, as though cutting a chain.
Raymond: "…As you wish. I will bear it."
At last, Blatir exhaled—a vague sigh, half relief, half suppressed triumph.
Blatir: "Good… well done. We will speak again later."
Raymond turned and departed, closing the door behind him with a heavy seal, like the lid of a tomb pressed upon a buried secret. His steps in the corridor appeared steady on the surface, yet they carried a shadow only he could feel.
The silence shattered suddenly as someone seized Raymond's arm—a strong grip, taut, trembling violently. He spun quickly—to find Aqua before him.
But his eyes were not as Raymond had known them. They burned, glowing like embers in a storm. He said nothing, only dragged Raymond with brutal force into the nearest room and slammed the door shut so hard the walls seemed to shake.
When he turned, his face was a storm.
Aqua: "The moment your father was crowned…" His voice trembled with rage, raw as though his throat were burning. "You asked me about my father… about what he told me before the coronation. Why?"
Raymond froze, his brows knitting in confusion. "What is this? Has something happened?"
But Aqua was in no mood for questions. He erupted suddenly, his voice a blade ripping through the room: "Answer the damned question!!!"
Raymond stepped back slightly—not from fear, but from the sheer shock of the outburst. This was not the youth he knew; this was something else, a storm of unbearable grief and fury. Still, he steadied his voice, replying with cautious coolness:
Raymond: "I saw Ser Darren kneel before your father at the burial rites. That is why I—"
"Why what?!" Aqua cut him off, his eyes widening in madness, his hands trembling. "You think a knight's kneeling is enough to spark your curiosity? Did… did you suspect something?!"
Raymond's expression shifted. His eyes narrowed, his voice sharpened like steel: "What happened?!"
The words struck Aqua like lightning, halting his rage for a heartbeat. He drew a ragged breath, his chest heaving violently. Then he spoke, his voice broken:
Aqua: "My father… hasn't returned home in days. Ser Darren came asking for him… and when I pressed him, he confessed."
He stopped, throat dry, eyes shining with a mix of fury and dread. "He said my father… vanished. Disappeared. The moment your father was crowned."
Raymond's features tightened. His mind raced with poisonous thoughts—every detail replaying itself: Darren kneeling… the new king… the missing duke. A dark puzzle unraveling before him.
But Aqua gave him no time to think. He stepped closer, closing the distance, his finger stabbing the air like a dagger.
Aqua: "If my father does not return tomorrow… and it turned out that your father had a hand in this…"
His voice dropped suddenly, venomous, sharp as dripping poison: "I swear… I will drive my blade into his throat. With my own two hands."
Then he spun away, storming toward the door. The screech of its hinges was like metallic screams, and he slammed it shut behind him with thunderous force.
Raymond stood frozen, alone in the room.
Aqua's words still echoed within him, tolling in his chest like a death knell. Something inside him clenched, heavy as lead.
But… he was not entirely alone.
At the far end of the corridor, hidden within the shadows of the library, someone had been listening.
Marquees Leon Cypher sat on a wooden chair, an old book open in his hands. Yet his eyes were not on the text. They were fixed, unblinking, upon the scene that had just unfolded.
A smile touched his lips. Then slowly… he closed the book—its sound in the darkness like a seal pressed upon a secret never meant to be revealed.