I was tempted to start with the Princess Nara, but I found that the story may have some holes. So it's best we begin at Chapter 0
Before I begin this section of chapter 0, I want you to know that the 0 chapters will be quite long.
And truth be told; not very linear.
The scrolls I found weren't written by one man or even one generation. Some were poetic, others brutal, a few so contradictory that I wondered if truth itself had been at war. But I'll do my best to make sense of it all. You have my word; by the end, it will make sense.
Now, if you're still here, take a deep breath.
The story begins with a man whose name you might not remember, but whose shadow shaped everything that followed
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Sir William Bryce.
I watched the man drag himself along the forest floor. Every movement of his body was a battle, every inch of distance a hard-won victory. He clawed at the dirt, groaning through the pain, but still refused to die. I wasn't surprised. I'd fought the Vasilains long enough to know they don't surrender. They fight to the very last breath. Even afer that.
He finally rolled onto his back, gasping hard, his chest heaving as if each breath might be his last. His eyes found me; tired, yes, but burning with fury. They said more than his lips ever could.
"I will find you," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice thick with blood. "I'll find your wife. I will fu—"
He never finished.
For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I don't remember drawing my sword, but I remember the silence that followed.
I turned slowly from the corpse, brushing my mud-stained golden hair aside, and looked over the clearing. There was a reek of moss, decay, and iron. All around me, the bodies of Vasilian men and women lay in crooked stillness.
I watched my knight brothers move among the fallen, quiet and efficient, driving steel into anything that still twitched. The sound of steel sinking into flesh rang like rain on stone.
"Poor bastards," I remembered Sir Pennywort say as he came up beside me. His armour was caked in mud and dented from the day's work, his sword stained with blood.
I remembered him smiling; smiling as he plunged his sword into a corpse. I said nothing, only tightened my grip on my blade.
Then came the cry.
A body, caked in dirt and blood, lurched from the ground and charged a knight. The others fell upon him like wolves, cutting him down before he could even swing.
"Should've stayed down." Pennywort said.
"He should have stayed down." The words were on my lips, the same as Pennywort's, but the callous ease with which he said them made something burn in my chest. I turned to him, to remind him they were human, but my words died. Behind him, I froze.
There was movement. A shadow too large to belong to any ordinary man.
"Pennywort," I said quietly. "Don't move."
He should have listened
The giant stood right in front of him; bloodied, monstrous, eyes full of hate. Before Pennywort could curse, the man's hand was around his throat. The knife slid in deep, and Pennywort's blood sprayed my face.
The man leaned close, whispering something I couldn't hear. Then he dropped Pennywort's body like a sack of meat and looked straight at me.
I raised my sword. My heart was hammering in my chest, but my hands didn't shake.
A shout came from behind; "Five on him!", and a wave of knights charged.
The giant snatched Pennywort's sword and swung with wild, brutal grace. Every swing sang with rage. He cut two men down before the others could close in.
And then: thwack. A spear drove through his gut.
The man froze, his blood running freely, and his eyes found mine again. There was no fear there. Just that same terrible, knowing smile.
He fell slowly, as if he meant for me to remember.
I did.
Even now, I still do.
When the others moved on, I stayed behind. I crouched beside his body and brushed the dirt from his face. There, under the blood, was the Vasilian mark, curved like an old inscription, running from his cheek to his neck.
A mark of the doomed.
I closed his eyes.
"Bryce!"
Sir Larkin's voice pulled me back. I rose and turned toward him. Two knights stood beside him, clean armour, untouched by battle. They didn't belong here.
"Sir William Bryce?" one of them asked.
"Yes."
"Lord Gregory summons you."
Sir Larkin looked at me the way I imagine I looked at him—in disbelief.
You see, my battalion—the third was commanded by Lord Gregory himself, the man the King calls his shield and his sword. Our orders were simple: to crush the Vasilian rebellion and burn its roots from the eastern plains to the Cy Woods in the north.
We had fought three great battles before this one, each bloodier than the last. Yet of all the divisions closing in on the Cy Woods, ours had lost the fewest men. They said it was Gregory's brilliance—his precision, his discipline, his refusal to waste lives for glory. Perhaps they were right.
But here's the thing: Lord Gregory never summoned foot knights. Ever.
He gave his orders through captains, and captains through Squad leaders. For him to send for a single man—especially me—wasn't just unusual. It was unheard of.
Larkin, my squad leader, saw it too. The disbelief in his eyes said what neither of us dared to voice: something was wrong.
"He hasn't done anything wrong?" Larkin asked.
The two knights said nothing and turned without another word.
I looked at Larkin, trying to keep my face neutral, but I think he saw through it. His next words were, "Go, I'll ask questions."
I followed the two knights and did all I could to only look forward. Why? Because the stabbing had stopped, and I knew that all eyes were on me.
As we passed through the camp, the night pressed close. The fires burned low. The wounded moaned softly while others sharpened swords or whispered the names of the dead.
The air stank of blood and rain.
The two knights—Sir Olie and Sir Black, I learned—spoke little. Their steps were sure, their eyes always ahead.
We passed a line of wagons where corpses lay covered in torn banners. I remember one of them shifting slightly, and a hand slipping out from under the cloth. No one stopped to tuck it back in.
We walked on until the camp gave way to an old cabin, half-burnt and reeking of smoke. Two mounted figures waited outside—Lord Gregory and Sir Manfred.
The Lord dismounted the moment he saw me. "You're Bryce?"
"Yes, my lord."
He studied me for a long moment, as if trying to see something beneath the grime and blood. Then he said, "Walk with me."
We moved through the wreckage together—past wounded men, shattered wagons, and the bodies of boys who'd been knights only hours before.
"No Vasilians giants, no bears, no wildfires," The Lord muttered. "We've been spared the horrors of Atticus. Yet my men lie like dogs."
I took a moment, I didn't know if I was to answer but the Lord looked at me and immediately I knew
"Knights die in battle," I said. My voice sounded hollow even to me.
"Doesn't make it easier, does it?"
"No, my lord."
He looked at me again. "Are you a good man, Bryce?"
I thought for a moment before answering. Was this a test? What is happening? Have I done anything wrong? I turned away from the Lord and took a deep breath. I said,
"I try to be, My Lord. But sometimes the shadows within are... necessary."
The Lord gave a small, tired nod. "Necessary indeed."
We stopped before a coarse canvas tent, its seams dark with dried blood. The wind lifted its edges, carrying the faint stench of iron and sweat.
"It came to me," Gregory said, "that you once led a scout through the Cy Woods."
"I did. All the way to The Goats."
He smiled thinly. "That's why you're here."
He gestured for me to enter the coarse canvas tent. I did.
The air inside was thick with the smell of old sweat and iron. A map was strewn across a rough table, and at its far end stood a knight I didn't recognize.
"Sir Bryce, meet Sir Nightingale."
We clasped forearms. His grip was like stone.
"Pretty," Nightingale said, his eyes scanning my face. "How old are you? Twenty-five?"
I gave a curt nod.
"Didn't know we still had ones so young," he continued, then added quickly, "Except for Lord Gregory, of course."
The Lord rolled his eyes. "Get on with it."
Nightingale grinned and turned to the map. "Since Atticus, the Vasilians have offered little resistance. No giants, no bear-skinned warriors, no clever ambushes. Until this camp. It was different. Stronger. Lords Erwin and Ty report the same from the west and south. The enemy broke and fled into the Cy Woods each time. We sent scouts after them."
He paused, his grin fading. "None returned."
He looked at The Lord, who stepped forward.
"My fellow lords want to storm the woods from all sides," The Lord said, his voice low. "But I can't shake the feeling that is precisely what the Vasilians want. We will not charge blindly into a trap. We need to know what we're walking into."
The tent flap opened behind me. Sir Haywise and Sir Randel entered. They were the Lord's usual circle, men whose names were whispered around the camp with a mixture of respect and fear.
"Started without us?" Haywise said, his eyes immediately finding me.
"Gentlemen. Sir Bryce," Gregory greeted.
They acknowledged me with silent nods. Haywise's gaze was a physical weight, studying me like a specimen.
"So," Randel asked, his voice deceptively calm. "What can you tell us about these woods?"
All eyes were on me. These were the men who decided which units were sacrificial and which were vanguard. The fate of hundreds could hinge on their next words.
I walked to the map. I saw the Cy woods circled out.
"The woods can't be navigated," I said.
A heavy silence filled the tent. The faces staring back held not curiosity, but stark disbelief.
"Pardon me, Sir," Haywise said, his voice dripping with mock courtesy. "But what?"
I took a deep breath and continued.
"They change. We marked the trees to find our way back. By morning, the marks were gone. It was as if we'd never been there. We couldn't find a way out."
"Horse shit," Haywise snapped.
"It's the truth," I said, my eyes locked on the Lord. And in his gaze, I saw something unsettling: belief.
Gregory walked over and placed a hand on my shoulder. "But you are here. So you found a way."
"I was helped," I admitted. "By a commoner from a local settlement. There is a town in there, bigger than a village. The nomads there have learned to read the omens of the woods."
Lord Gregory sank into a chair, rubbing his chin. "The report said you were the only knight from that scout who returned to active duty. Why?"
"There are things in those woods, my Lord… Things that can drive a man mad."
Sir Randel's voice sharpened. "This wasn't in your report."
"We were young. If we had told the truth, they would have called us madmen and stripped our spurs."
Haywise scoffed. "You're not any saner now."
Gregory and Nightingale exchanged a long, wordless look. Gregory gave a single, slow nod.
"Wait outside, Bryce," he said.
I exhaled slowly and left. I stood in the cool air, watching the chaos of the camp, until the yelling started inside the tent.
Haywise: "We can't believe a word of it! We'd be wasting men and resources on a ghost story! Storm the woods!"
Nightingale, yelling back: "We fought them on open ground and they butchered us! Imagine what awaits in a place that shifts like sand!"
I walked away, letting their voices fade into a meaningless rumble.
"Bryce!" Sir Larkin called, striding toward me, a look of genuine relief on his face. "You're not in chains. I suppose that's a good sign."
We clasped arms.
Just then, the Lord emerged from the tent. Larkin and I snapped to attention. He stopped before me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and then walked on without a word. The gesture was so unexpected that Larkin and I could only exchange a look of stunned silence.
Before we could speak, Sir Nightingale exited, taking long strides towards us.
"Get your things, Bryce. We ride at dawn."
His eyes then fell on Larkin. "Who are you?"
"His squad leader, Sir," Larkin said, standing rigid.
Sir Nightingale studied him for a beat. "You get your things too."
He left us.
We stood there, shocked, as he strode after the Lord.
I found my voice and called after him, "Where are we going, Sir?"
Nightingale turned back. "Where else?"