The steps rushed toward the darkened door. Though from the window, it seemed as if fire was burning fiercely inside, flickering shadows dancing across the walls. Zord stepped on the creaked wood of the porch and knocked on the door with a serious, unwavering attitude.
"<
Zord answered steadily, "I am Zord Skeeth, from the city of Black Tides, son of Skeeth."
The door began to open slowly, its hinges groaning like old bones. The lovely night outside twisted into something uncertain—perhaps worse, perhaps better. At first, nothing appeared. Then, a figure emerged. His hair was thick, dark, and bear-like, his physique broad and imposing. He was very old, yet the presence he carried felt alive, dangerous, and wise all at once. The wooden door barely withstood his weight.
"Cathadoc: Look who is here," the man said in a low, calm voice. His words carried no smile, only the weight of recognition. "My grandson."
Zord stepped inside. The room smelled of smoke and old wood, dimly lit by the fire burning in a large chimney. Shadows leapt across the walls with every snap of burning coal. A massive chair sat near the hearth, a shelf packed with old, leather-bound books lined the walls, and the floor, worn and rusty, echoed each step with a hollow creak.
Cathadoc gestured for Zord to sit. Across from him, he remained in his grand chair, filling a glass of water with steady hands and placing it carefully before his grandson.
"Cathadoc: Can I ask why you are here all of a sudden?" His voice was calm, even, yet curiosity threaded through it, sharp and deliberate.
Zord's eyes were keen, unwavering. He had never truly been Cathadoc's grandson; Cathadoc had adopted his father, Skeeth, long ago, though Zord had no knowledge of this. Still, the pull of this meeting, of history and blood mingled with secrets, felt heavy upon him.
Cathadoc's face darkened slightly, regret softening his otherwise stern features. "I heard… Skeeth has died in the attack at Black Tides." The words hung in the air, heavy as the smoke drifting from the chimney, the coals snapping and spitting sparks into the dim light.
Zord nodded once, his expression calm but sharp. "I am a little regretful as well," he said. "But I am here for something… something precious."
Cathadoc leaned back, calm at first, then steady with the weight of anticipation. "And what is it?"
Zord reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, intricately decorated box. He placed it carefully on the table. Its exterior shimmered with unknown metals and symbols, secrets hidden beneath its ornate surface.
"Zord: My father once ordered one of his soldiers to deliver this to you. I heard of it long ago, and today… today I fulfill his wish."
Cathadoc's eyes misted slightly. Despite his large, rugged frame, his heart bore the weight of grief, of loss. He lifted his left hand to his eyes, blinking back a sharp sting of tears, yet his composure remained firm.
"Cathadoc: Your father… he was always a man of pride and wisdom. He was called the Black Wing of the Sea. But beneath it, he carried a heart—not like a pirate, but a kind, honorable man."
Zord's eyes softened slightly. "That is good to hear. He was truly worthy… and you… you look just like my father said you would, Cathadoc. I first thought he had come himself to see me."
Cathadoc smiled faintly, though sadness lingered. "I am an old man, distant from the world now, but once… I was strong enough to sail the seas. The ocean… it weakens your bones over time. Just like that…"
Zord tilted his head, curious. "The ocean makes bones weak? How?"
Cathadoc sighed, leaning back into his chair.
"There is a story, son, one of the greatest and darkest heirs of darkness. Though… we are blessed that he still sleeps, deep in the sea."
Zord's eyes narrowed. "A heir of darkness… in the sea? What is his name?"
Cathadoc frowned slightly. "I do not remember… but your father knew it well. All I know is that he was one of the Whispering Thrives, the Gate Closer of the Sea."
Suddenly, Zord felt a vibration in his pocket.
He stood swiftly, a slight tension in his shoulders. "I must go, Cathadoc. There is more work waiting for me." He paused, offering a weak goodbye. Yet as he stepped outside, a chilling sense settled over him—something bad was coming. A war was brewing, unseen but inevitable.
The trees surrounded a man lying on the soft grass. The sun was at his face, his eyes closed, shining against his white skin. He slowly opened them, blinded by the sunlight. He raised his right hand and cast a shadow to see. He changed his position from lying to sitting.
Aron: "A little rest doesn't hurt, for sure." He never saw a smile on his face, only despair and agony. He stood up, vibrated his body to loosen the dust, and used his hands to clear dust from his hair.
Balrad was preparing food for one of his horses. He mixed it with water, a perfect meal for the animals. Then, for the sparrows, he gave them water and food, with a few worms.
He saw Aron coming from afar. He shouted.
Aron got closer and walked toward him. It was a very nice day… until two loud horses' footsteps made their presence known.
Balrad cleaned himself , he used the bucket and put water on his hand to clear the dirt , he quickly get towards aron and started to see the horse shadow as the sun light outreaches them until there faces become lightet and brightet and clearer , the soldiers stood there , silent and unmoving , their armours reflecting the rising shine , dust floating slowly in the air as the ground stayed dry and cracked beneath their steps .
He narrowed his eyes , trying to focus more as the shapes formed properly , hooves pressing the soil and the sound echoing faintly around them , aron remained still , watching alongside him without speaking , the warmth of the light spreading across the path while tension quietly built between the distance .
Balrad wiped his wet hand on his cloth , breathing steady , as the shadows no longer hid them , and what once looked distant now stood clear before them , the soldiers .