"These fools are drawing the gaze of the Holy Church toward our kingdom. A wretched headache if there ever was one. They should have let the outsiders perish beyond the walls. Yet here they are, meddling in matters not their own."
Through the window's dim reflection, one could see the man who spoke.
The chamber was steeped in a blackened haze, as if the night forest had swallowed the moon whole.
It was a scholar's sanctum—made for reading, for the weaving of arcane scripture. Three vast desks of foreign pine stood within, their surfaces carved with flowing patterns of divine precision, the ends of each fitted with small hooks upon which talismans hung like mute bells.
The desks were drowned in parchment burnt at the edges, the scrawled runes upon them unreadable to any mortal mind. Around them, grimoires without words lay open, whispering faintly as the air itself warped with unstable mana.
"As I thought," the man murmured, "those who stray from the path of doctrine will bring only shame upon the faithful."
Even far beyond the city's edge, a thousand—ten thousand spans away—the ripple of corrupted mana could still be felt.
It broke the harmony of the air, stirring unease. The grimoires around him began to smolder, faint tongues of fire licking their bindings.
It was wrong. All of it was wrong.
"Especially you—"
A knock came.
Two short, deliberate strikes against the door.
The man within lifted his head from the table, his brow drawn tight. In one hand he held a crystal of carved stone, the other resting among the torn papers that lay like discarded thoughts.
The nameplate at the table's edge bore a single title, etched in solemn script:
Prorsun, Scholar of the Stone Epoch.
"Prorsun! You're—"
"Lord Migael Rozpek," said the voice beyond the door. "His Majesty summons you at once."
The man—Migael Rozpek, the King's right hand—stepped from the chamber, the door slamming shut behind him like a sentence.
He walked swiftly down the hall, his cloak brushing the stone like the tail of a storm. In his grasp, a staff clicked against the ground, steadying a body that moved not from weakness but from disgust.
"How long has the knight detachment been dispatched?"
"For some time now, my lord," said the servant beside him. "By my sense, they are near the harbor gates. They should arrive soon."
The corridor stretched vast, gilded glass glinting like sanctified flame.
Though it resembled a cathedral, it was no place of worship. The golden panes shimmered with divine aura; each reflection upon them mirrored those who passed—nobles, ministers, and high knights—all of whom bore themselves like angels beneath heaven's disdain.
"Today will be troublesome, Scholar," said a noble knight leaning lazily against a pillar, his smirk cutting like a blade. "Your people have made quite the mess."
Rozpek's gaze sharpened. Beneath his monocle, crafted for the sensing of mana, the air itself quivered.
He said nothing, only advanced until he stood close enough to breathe the other man's arrogance.
"You might at least thank me," the knight sneered. "My men went out to bring those bas—ghhk!"
A gush of clear liquid burst from the knight's mouth and nose. He crumpled at Rozpek's feet, gasping.
The King's hand looked down on him as if upon refuse.
"Silence suits you better. You bark like a stray, begging for scraps. Remember this—your title as a noble knight exists because your father died a pitiful death among the outer troops. You, a fool without worth or merit, were placed in his stead. So mind your roots. If you still possess a mind to begin with."
He stepped over the man's bowed frame and continued toward the grand hall.
Those who witnessed the outburst shrank back, their fear a reverent hush.
---
At the outer ring of the Kingdom of Krasmer.
The sound of hooves struck the white stone road.
On one side, soft cobblestones laid for weary feet; on the other, the path of brick dividing the city's veins.
The townsfolk glimpsed the riders from the inner city. Though only days had passed since they last rode through, the chill that hung over the streets had drawn all warmth from their hearts. None dared approach.
Their armor gleamed—a regiment of silver-lanced knights astride horses of ash and fire.
The people murmured, recalling how the royal guard had ridden out amid strange storms of mana.
Shopkeepers and peddlers cleared the way, ducking into alleys as the riders passed.
"Ride faster," said one knight. "We cannot delay His Majesty."
"I don't ride like you fools," came a dry voice from among them. "Or is your wit as heavy as your armor?"
Between the columns of mounted knights walked a man the others knew—Prorsun, Scholar of the Stone Epoch.
He was no true scholar, not anymore, but a keeper at the Church of the Profane.
Yet now he walked beside strangers—two warriors, and a thing that was not quite man, slung over a horse like carrion.
To the townsfolk, warriors were vermin—rabid beasts of war without creed or conscience.
Murderers with no purpose but killing.
Their gaze upon the procession was filled with hatred sharp enough to draw blood.
"They really went after the heretics," someone whispered. "And that's the scholar himself. What's he doing among them?"
Eyes followed with disdain so heavy it might have crushed the street beneath it.
Some trailed behind from afar, wary that a single glance might provoke slaughter.
"You could have fled at the shore," Prorsun murmured. "So why didn't you?"
His words reached the two walking behind him—Vionneer, the silver-blooded warrior, calm and regal with her hand resting upon her sheathed blade; and Helm, the towering archer whose sharp tongue was as reckless as his height.
"See the thing I carried from the start?" Helm said. "That's the whole damned reason."
"Quiet!" barked a knight from behind.
Helm turned, his shadow falling over the man's helm, and the knight looked away at once.
"Always shouting orders," Helm muttered. "You're lucky we let you live long enough to boast. Don't act brave with a blade you can barely lift, little lord."
The procession pressed on.
Beyond the murmuring streets they reached the inner gates—a wide archway without guard or bar, open as if daring fate to pass through.
The people within were unlike the outer townsfolk—draped in fine robes, silk scarves, and jeweled feathers. Their disdain was perfume in the air.
"Ugh, look at them," hissed a lady. "Blood all over their armor. Disgusting."
"Truly," said another. "Like pigs from the outer stables. Revolting."
Behind the line came the warriors Helm had led into the camp of Vaibariz, the ones who slew the seer with their own hands.
Helm laughed, his voice booming.
"Well now! So many fine ladies and gentlemen gathered. Why waste such precious time staring at scum like us? You'll die with your tongues sharp and your spines bent. None of you will ever touch the power you mock."
The nobles seethed, yet none dared respond.
Vionneer walked on in silence. Her eyes strayed to the children who watched—not with hatred, but with something else.
In their gaze she saw what she had long forgotten: the innocence denied to all who bear arms.
It stirred something faint, fragile, within her.
"Master Scholar," a voice called from ahead—one of the Chainbound Clerics, servants of the Profane Church. "We'll get you out of here!"
"Stand down!" cried a knight. "Your master is under arrest! Defy the crown and you'll swing by dawn!"
Vionneer half-drew her sword—not to strike, but to warn. The sound of steel unsheathing hushed the air.
The knights froze. One wrong move would ignite the square.
"Easy now," she said softly. "You wouldn't want the people to see their heroes drenched in blood, would you?"
"You have no right, warrior!"
"Vionneer," Helm growled. "Let's crush them right here."
He raised his bow, and the air screamed. The string glowed red, light bending around it.
Knights flinched, their faces withering under the weapon's spirit-hunger.
Vionneer moved not at all.
The Chainbound surged forward, placing themselves before Prorsun.
Above them, light broke—a gold flare twisting against violet shadow, forming a triangle of revolving rings.
The earth trembled.
Those too slow to flee collapsed where they stood, senseless.
"You worthless fools!"
The voice thundered across the kingdom.
It was Migael Rozpek, the King's right hand, his wrath echoing like divine judgment.
Prorsun said nothing. He merely laughed under his breath and lifted his eyes to the sky.
Vionneer sheathed her blade.
Helm threw his head back and roared with laughter.
None of them knew fear.
And the thing bound upon the horse—the body that was once still—fell to the ground.
Chains dug deep, the arrow yet buried within.
Then it stirred.
It began to remember.
Memories not its own flooded through the skull like a storm of knives.
Voices of the dead. Faces of centuries.
The blackness within was endless, and from that pit came a whisper—soft, unending—
the sound of all things that suffer and never die.