The night in Tlum was cold.
The wind howled, and a light drizzle fell. Guards patrolled the streets in rotating shifts, while on the walls sleepy members of the royal divisions stood watch on the high, stone battlements.
They hid inside the watchtowers to shield themselves from the rain and wind, yet even with their thick fur-lined coats the gusts cut through, chilling their faces most of all. Their ears were red, just like their runny noses.
"Fucking wind, it's freezing," one guard muttered as he lit the lantern in the watchtower with trembling hands. He wrapped himself tighter in his cloak, pulling both ends of the thick fabric around him. With him stood another man — bearded and balding. Both were in their thirties, dressed in the black uniforms of the watch, bundled up as much as possible. They stared through the rectangular slit in the tower, but they couldn't see far; it was pitch black, and the moon was hidden behind clouds.
The rain was irritating, falling lightly but steadily, turning the dirt road leading to Tlum's gate into mud.
"Winter's coming soon. Did you gather enough firewood?" the bearded man asked, leaning on the opening.
"How much is 'enough' wood?" the first one replied.
"For our winters...?" The bearded guard paused, sniffing several times to clear his nose. His sword, hanging in its sheath, swayed as he stepped toward the exit.
"No matter how many winters I survive, I never know. I'll go ask the others what they think."
He went from tower to tower along the walls searching for an answer, but it turned out that even the most experienced guards never truly knew what kind of winter awaited them.
Landan, in his chambers, was drinking tea and looking over a map of the Frozen Land. Even through the window — though firmly closed — he could feel the cold outside. Wearing his dark-blue robe and leather shoes, he studied the map wearily, placing small figurines on one side and marking something else with his quill on the other.
Master Alvis entered carrying pastries filled with lard and jam. Landan keeps his chambers spotless, he thought; everything was in its place. He pulled a chair to the wooden table and sat across from his student, who lowered the map onto the dark-brown surface.
The room glowed with lanterns and candles. Several candles on the table illuminated the map, their warm wax scent slowly filling the room while their flame only emphasized the chill in the air.
"That smell's going to give you a headache," Master Alvis said as Landan poured him tea. The scent of chamomile rose from the cup, and Landan added a spoonful of honey. Then he slumped into his chair, exhausted, looking at the window — only to see cold raindrops sliding down the glass. Those windows will be a mess to clean, he thought.
"What's this, Landan?" Alvis asked, pointing to an unopened letter on the table. Landan reached for it and picked up the letter opener.
"I almost forgot about this," he said as he opened it.
"It has Captain Solas' seal," Alvis noted upon seeing the cracked wax marked with a red fox.
"It's from Captain Solas," Landan confirmed while taking a sip of tea and reading. When he set the cup down, he noticed it had cracked at the rim. He then looked back into the envelope and found another parchment — old and worn, long faded from its original color. Torn, as if only a fragment of something. Which it was.
"Master…" Landan murmured, staring at the parchment, his eyes confused, intrigued, and afraid. His exhaustion vanished instantly — this discovery had woken him completely. Master Alvis took the parchment from him, equally bewildered.
"This is a great discovery, my boy," he said calmly, though he himself was stunned. "It seems the stories weren't just stories. Does the king know about this?"
"Not yet," Landan replied, collecting himself and taking a jam pastry, getting his fingers sticky.
"Perhaps it's for the best that he doesn't know yet," Alvis said. Landan glanced at him.
"Perhaps," he finally agreed.
Outside Landan's chambers, a man stood listening behind the closed door with a wide smile on his face — the Master of Trade, who had been waiting for an opportunity like this.
The scream of steel echoed through the storm. Arrows tore through the air, and with every new gust of wind or crashing wave, the ships creaked and shuddered.
On the deck of the great pirate ship stood Kjaran and Waeskian, locked in a furious duel. Kjaran had the initiative, forcing the captain back. His sword swings came from every direction — he didn't wield his blade like a weapon, but like a painter's brush. Each movement calculated to set up the next. He slashed from the right; the captain dodged by stepping back — but in the middle of the swing Kjaran released his sword, hurling it at Waeskian, forcing him to block.
So much natural energy… the pirate captain thought, visible even on his face. He felt the weight of Kjaran's sword as he deflected it to the right. But Kjaran closed the distance in a heartbeat, slicing through the rain, gliding across the deck with such force that the planks groaned beneath him. Before the sword even finished flying, he caught it mid-air and swung.
"Incredible…" Terror filled Waeskian's eyes as he barely managed to block. He braced his sabre vertically downward, gripping it with both hands. Even that wasn't enough — he was hurled into the wooden stairway leading to the stern. Planks exploded in splinters. He breathed rapidly, noticing a shard of wood lodged in his tricep; he ripped it out immediately,dropping the bloody wood on the boards.
But he had no time to rest — Kjaran was already upon him, swinging again. The pirate captain threw himself aside.
"Good gods", he thought as the rain cooled his face and the wind refreshed him."Are you even human?"
Kjaran no longer looked like a man — but like a black reaper approaching slowly, eager to take his shadow. His eyes were dark, hidden behind his hair; his uniform was pitch black. He was pure silhouette. A shadow of doom.
Waeskian quickly got back to his feet.
"I am a captain too," he smirked. Kjaran paused cautiously.
"It's time I get serious, Captain Brin!" Waeskian roared and charged.
His first strike came from the right — Kjaran blocked it, steel ringing. Waeskian then dropped his sabre, letting it clatter onto the deck. Freeing his second hand, he grabbed Kjaran's right arm, trying to force him to drop his sword — but Kjaran simply kicked him, knocking the air from his lungs. Waeskian hit the deck motionless.
"Former admiral of Tolan…" Kjaran muttered. "How far you've fallen."
He raised his blade to stab him — but the pirate captain quickly snatched his sabre and swung. Kjaran leapt back in surprise, receiving a cut across his face.
Waeskian rose slowly, supporting himself with his hands on the slippery deck. His face was tired and soaked; blood dripped from his chin. Kjaran watched him with satisfaction.
"So there's still some Tolan left in you," Kjaran said.
"Fuck Tolan," Waeskian panted.
"Fuck the kingdom." The pirate captain stood up.
"The only thing left in me is desire."
"Desire?" Kjaran repeated confused, his voice carried by the wind.
"For what, Waeskian?"
Silence. Waeskian looked at the other ship where brutal fighting raged, then turned back to Kjaran. Rain streamed down their faces; they were soaked and heavy — weighed down by water, by expectation, by duty and responsibility. Weighed down by desire.
"For freedom, Kjaran!" Captain Elamenor broke the silence.
Kjaran stared sharply — intrigued, cold.
"Is that why you left the royal fleet?" First division captain asked puzzled. "For freedom?"
"That's right," Waeskian answered without hesitation.
"And what of your honor?" Kjaran stepped closer, heavy, shaking the nails from the planks.
"Your loyalty? Your duty to the kingdom?" He aimed the blade at him.
Waeskian readied his sabre,ready to attack.
"Honor, loyalty, duty…" he said tiredly, circling like at the start of the duel. "For what? A life of battle, sorrow, and burdens that lead nowhere." He stopped.
"When was the last time you were happy, Kjaran?"
The words rung in his head,he was struck on the spot.
"When was the last time you relaxed — truly free of all worry and duty?" Waeskian's stare was bleak and heavy, cutting.
"But what are we without honor, loyalty and duty, former admiral?" Kjaran shouted over the storm.
"What are we without purpose, Waeskian!?"
"You should find a purpose, you're right," Waeskian agreed. "But find a purpose for yourself...not for others, Kjaran."
Then he charged with everything he had — and Kjaran was ready. Ready to show him his purpose.
Arrows flew — one struck a pirate through the head, but Ratko missed the second. The pirate rushed him with a longsword. Ratko dodged, but tripped on a broken plank and fell on his back. The pirate swung downward toward his skull—
A flash of lightning — and the sight of Sergeant Brann's sword blocking the strike just inches from Ratko's face. Brann shoved the pirate back. The man was huge, nearly Brann's size — which said enough.
Brann pulled Ratko to his feet and turned toward the pirate, who spat at him. His bald head gleamed, and half his left ear was bitten off.
"You're one big motherfucker," the pirate growled with a raspy voice as he approached.
"And now I'm gonna fuck your mother too," Brann spat back and swung.
The hit was so strong the deck gave way — both of them crashed through into the lower deck. Wood shattered, nails ripped out. They landed on broken planks several meters apart. Rain poured through the hole above. Lanterns rattled; one fell and burst, spilling flammable liquid, a small flame dancing on its surface.
"Son of a—" Brann muttered, pushing planks off himself and rubbing the back of his head. He noticed a nail lodged in his calf and yanked it out, blood dripping before the rain washed it away.
The fall kicked up dust, but the rain quickly compacted it, and the big pirate didn't wait long before he got up and swung at the sergeant again. Brann rolled aside, pirate's sword cutting only air. As he turned, he spotted a flying nail — bloody — hurled by Brann. It embedded itself in his opponents 's left clavicle just below the neck.
Should've gone through his throat, Brann thought.
"Fuckin' aim," he cursed aloud, standing amid scattered wood.
"If I hadn't focused my energy there, you'd have taken my shoulder clean off," the pirate said, pulling the nail from his wound and tossing it aside. Blood spilled and the rain carried it away.
Brann laughed deeply — then hurled his sword like a spear. The pirate blocked it, but the force knocked his own sword from his hand. Before he understood what happened, Brann was already airborne, tackling him around the waist and smashing him into the destroyed bunks.
Wood flew everywhere — even Elstan saw it on deck. The momentary distraction cost him — his opponent lunged, but Elstan quickly stepped back.
The former vice admiral seized his chance to strike Captain Hugo, who stood a few meters away behind a massive bolt launcher. He finally managed to realign the weapon toward the enemy ship, exhausted from slipping and falling repeatedly.
"Damn useless contraption," he panted as rain mixed with sweat on his skin.
He didn't have time to aim before something entered his peripheral vision — a small sword spinning toward him.
"You've got to be—"
He didn't even get to finish the thought before the second sword struck the first one, knocking it aside and sending it skidding across the slippery deck with a ringing clang. Hugo froze for a moment, stunned. The pirate vice captain shot an irritated glance toward Elstan, who was slowly approaching him, drawing in natural energy. The blade of his remaining sword shone, soaked with rain and power.
"Hugo," shouted the captain as he caught his other sword, which had bounced back after the clash. "Focus."
Elstan's voice was cold—cold like the wind howling around them. A fresh slap of rain hit Hugo in the face, snapping him awake again. He quickly got to his feet and rushed toward the bolt launcher. He pulled back the string and prepared to fire—only to discover that the bolts had been scattered across the deck. He glanced around, searching for the closest miniature spear, but the pirate first mate was watching him intently.
Elstan didn't wait long before striking. He threw his left-hand sword at him, and the man dodged by bending backward; the blade sliced past his nose and buried itself in the wood behind him.
Before he could straighten up, Elstan was already on him, swinging from above. Pirate dropped onto his hands and pushed himself backward toward where his other sword lay. Now Elstan was down one blade; the roles had reversed, and the former vice admiral was not going to waste that chance.
He launched a furious assault, swinging one sword from the right and the other from the left. Elstan knew he couldn't block both. He leapt upward, channeling natural energy into his legs. The planks on the stern cracked beneath the force as his opponent's two swords clashed beneath him, missing entirely.
"In midair…" thought his opponent, searching for an opportunity—but when he looked up, he saw Elstan's blade hurling toward him. The vibrating steel cut through the air, missing by a hair. It sliced his cheek, spraying blood onto the deck, and where it struck the planks, they split again. The hit jerked his head to the side, and when he refocused on Captain Elstan, the man's fist was already inches from his face.
Elstan slammed a punch full of natural energy into his nose. Blood spilled across his knuckles as the former vice admiral crashed through the already cracked planks and fell into the storage space beneath the stern—where the members of the Luganor expedition had once hidden during their border crossing. He channeled all natural energy into his head so the captain wouldn't break his skull.
"Fuck me…" he muttered, brushing chunks of wood off himself. "What the hell…?" he thought as his hands touched something sticky.
"Vomit," Elstan smirked from above.
The man slowly stood and shook himself off—sticky, soaked, and convinced the night couldn't get any worse. Then Brann flew through the doorway of the enclosed space and slammed into him. The impact was strong; both men smashed into the stern wall behind them, splitting it further.
Elstan was startled, but stayed composed. He breathed slowly and deeply, grounding himself again. The huge pirate missing part of his ear entered through the broken doorway. His face was bruised and swollen, and he spat blood as he advanced toward his opponent, who lay beside his first mate.
Brann rose slowly—he was in better shape than the pirate—but the man grabbed him and hurled him back through the doorway, injuring him badly. Elstan was unarmed, and Brann was dazed. The two pirates realized this instantly and seized their chance.
The former vice admiral reached his sword that had fallen earlier with him, and Brann didn't get to defend himself in time—he lost an arm in a fraction of a second. Blood sprayed from his upper arm, splattering across the shattered wood. Elstan leapt down, but too late.
Brann swung weakly at the pirate with the braid, but the man dodged easily and with a precise,sharp cut severed Brann's other arm cleanly at the shoulder. His blade dripped with blood, the same red liquid the rain was scattering across the boards. Elstan froze in shock for a heartbeat, then rushed to strike the pirate with his sword—but the huge pirate swung at him, forcing him back.
Then the tall pirate turned toward Brann, who had collapsed to his knees in agony. His severed arms lay among the planks; dark blood ran down his body, blending with his black clothes. The giant pirate picked up a sharpened piece of broken wood and grabbed Brann by the head.
Elstan appeared behind him in a blink, using every last drop of natural energy he forced into his legs. With the broken board, he impaled the pirate through the stomach. The wood burst out the other side, soaked—soaked in blood, rain, and spilled organs, all mixing together. Blood poured freely, thinned by the rain.
At the same moment, the ear bitten pirate drove another jagged plank into Brann's neck, piercing his vocal cords, throat, and windpipe. Brann's expression was one of pain—but even more of disappointment and sorrow. As blood streamed down the wood and onto his chest, he could think only of how desperately he had wanted to see the rocky shores of Ganalor.
Brann fell—and with him, the tall pirate. Two corpses on the wet boards, a fresh pool of blood spreading beneath them. Elstan remained unarmed, facing the former vice admiral of Tolan, sword in hand and blood on his face.
Rain poured down. Thunder crashed. Both men noticed smoke drifting from deeper in the lower deck. A broken lantern had started a fire. Rainwater was beginning to pool below deck, seeping through cracks and holes in several places—but the flames had already consumed much of the ship beneath them.
The night grew longer. The rain did not ease, nor did the wind. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. Arrows and spears flew across the deck. Water and blood, blades and fists. Steel against steel. Steel against wood. Steel against flesh and bone. Waves tossed the ships left and right; the sea raged, and the battles grew fiercer, heavier.
The night in the forests of Darni was calm, quiet—occasionally brushed by a gentle breeze, but without rain, without thunder, without lightning, and without tension.
In one chamber, the prince of Darn was dining. Wearing his silver silk robe, he sat at a finely carved wooden table, candles lit all around him. Before him lay roasted duck in a ginger-and-cherry sauce. Beside it, a jug of wine and two silver goblets—one for the prince, and one for the man seated across from him.
The man wore a light green robe marked with pale brown symbols of leaves and branches. His face was older than the prince's—around forty, as shown by his graying goatee and short brown hair with streaks of silver that framed his square face. This was his captain of the guard. The prince enjoyed dining with him, for he loved hearing tales of the captain's adventures.
Both men ate heartily, taking bites of duck, followed by pieces of dry bread, washed down with wine.
"I believe tonight is the right night for me to tell you a story, Captain Enfir," the prince began, taking a sip of wine and placing the goblet back on the table. His long blond hair fell to his lower back, enhancing the elegance of his robe.
"Please do, my prince," the captain encouraged, chewing a piece of bread.
The prince paused for a moment, his mind drifting. Then he looked at his captain and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"Well then… how about a tale of the ancient paths of the King's Stones?" he said with a smile.