the late hours of the night, Branth stood in his private common room, holding a goblet of deep red wine. A thick fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders, shielding him from the biting cold. He stood near the crackling fire, its orange glow dancing across his troubled face. His eyes were fixed on the flames, lost in heavy thoughts. Just then, a servant stepped in, bowing nervously.
"My lord… he has arrived."
Branth didn't turn. His voice was sharp. "Send him in."
Moments later, the door opened again, and a tall man entered—a hardened warrior of North Fell, known throughout the northern lands as Sir Varion Thath. Snow clung to his boots and shoulders, and a thin scar crossed his cheek like a pale blade. He bowed respectfully, but Branth's glare was cold and furious.
"What explanation do you bring me?" Branth's voice thundered before Thath could speak. "A man was caught inside my castle—mixing God-knows-what poison in my stables! And you expect me to believe your people know nothing of this?"
Thath raised his hands slightly, as if calming a raging storm. "My lord Branth, please… listen. The man is not from North Fell. We would never send someone into Medown House with such intentions. Whoever he is—he works alone, or for someone far more dangerous."
Branth stepped forward, firelight sharpening the anger in his eyes. "Do you think I am a fool, Thath? Trouble does not cross kingdoms without someone opening a door. And it certainly does not enter my home without a guiding hand."
Thath kept his tone steady, though tension pulled at his features. "I understand your anger, truly. But believe me—North Fell has no reason to harm your house. If anything, we would warn you. The lands are shifting, old shadows rising again. Someone is stirring the past—someone who wants both our houses to fall."
Branth's jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the goblet with barely controlled rage. "Then find out who. Because if this happens again… I will not show mercy. Not to the intruder—nor to the kingdom that shelters him."
Thath bowed his head slowly, acknowledging the warning. "You have my word, Lord Branth. I will uncover the truth. Before this fire spreads."
The room fell silent, the flames crackling between them like a restless, watching beast.
And then the day began. It was early morning, and the cold was slowly growing sharper. A straight road stretched ahead, with green fields on both sides and rows of trees lining the edges. Travelers moved along the path—some carrying goods and supplies on their shoulders, others guiding horse-carts loaded with essentials. Among these carts was one that held a wooden box, from which strange sounds kept echoing softly. A young boy sat inside the cart, doing everything he could to keep those sounds from reaching anyone outside.
A short distance away, the story turned to Wesron Fell, where Aeron stood in a dim courtyard, fastening the iron plates of a servant's armor. His breath drifted in pale clouds as he tightened each buckle with steady hands. Footsteps soon approached—soft, graceful, unmistakable. Vasley Klingers, daughter of Romeol Flicth, stepped into the light, her cloak fluttering like a pale banner in the cold wind. With a gentle gesture she dismissed the armored servant. "Go… I'll take care of him," she said calmly. The servant bowed and hurried away. Vasley turned to Aeron with warmth in her eyes, and the two exchanged quiet, affectionate words. But beneath their closeness, Aeron's voice carried a troubled undertone—hinting that he wished she would let him go, free him from the growing weight that tethered him to Wesron Fell's rising conflicts. Vasley's smile faltered just slightly, sensing the unease behind his tenderness.
Before the moment could deepen, the scene widened to the grand tournament grounds—a vast field surrounded by wooden stands overflowing with shouting spectators. Aeron and Vasley took their seats as the thunder of the crowd rose around them. Men argued over wagers, slamming coins into eager hands. Along one side stood a long row of courtesans calling to the gamblers. Near them was a sharp-featured young man—Quil Flicth, Vasley's younger brother—explaining the rules to a Vaisya. "It's a kind of game," he said, pointing toward the arena where two armored riders mounted warhorses. "Two champions charge each other and try to knock the other's spear to the ground. Whoever loses their spear first must stand on foot, holding a fresh one, while the other—still on horseback—rides in to strike." The Vaisya stared wide-eyed as Quil leaned closer with a smirk. "And the winner… earns a reward of their own choosing."Just then, a young man appeared and stood behind Quil, speaking sharply, "Enough of this now. How much longer will you keep flirting?" Quil turned around at once and laughed. "Oh! So you've arrived, my brother—Trior Thath, son of the great warrior Thath," he said proudly. Trior smiled faintly and replied, "You never change, Quil." The two began talking about visiting the Haunt House, but Quil shook his head. "Not today," he said. "First, we'll watch the tournament." At that moment, the sound of drums rolled through the air and music burst out across the grounds. The crowd erupted in loud cheers. Two mighty warriors entered the arena on their horses, both holding long spears. Their armor was thick and heavily secured, their faces completely hidden behind metal masks. Aeron and Vasley were seated together as the excitement rose. Suddenly, a man approached Vasley and said respectfully, "Your brother will face no danger today—the road has already been cleared." Vasley responded with a small, calm smile.
Meanwhile, the scene shifted to Tyler's chamber. A woman knocked gently on the door. At that moment, Tyler stretched and slowly woke up. As she opened her eyes, she realized that Lyna was not beside her on the bed. Sitting up in surprise, she called out, "You may come in." The woman entered carrying a tray of breakfast. Tyler asked quickly, "Have you seen Lyna?" The woman shook her head. "No, my lady, I haven't seen her. Please freshen up and come downstairs—your father is waiting for everyone."
When Tyler came downstairs, she saw that everyone was already seated. Branth sat proudly on his throne, and beside him sat the great warrior Varior Thath. And there—safe and calm—sat Lyna as well. The moment Tyler saw her, she rushed forward in relief.
"Oh, Lyna! I thought you had already left. I was so scared," Tyler said, sitting beside her at once.
Lyna smiled softly and replied, "I'm not going anywhere just yet. There are still many things left to do. After all, I have to see for myself whom you are marrying." Tyler laughed shyly as the hall filled with warm murmurs.
At the very same moment, in Wesron Fell, the tournament began with the rise of thunderous music. Aeron's sharp eyes were fixed on the arena. The two warriors lowered their spears and urged their horses forward. The ground trembled as the horses charged toward each other at full speed. Their spears struck with a deafening clash of steel, sparks flying into the air. One warrior was thrown violently from his horse, his spear spinning away across the dusty ground. But in the same heartbeat, the second warrior also lost balance and fell from his horse, landing hard on the earth while still gripping his spear. A man rushed in and forcefully pulled them apart, shouting for them to continue the battle on foot. The two warriors rose slowly, circling each other with heavy breaths. Steel clashed again—spear against spear—blow after blow, each strike echoing across the arena. Suddenly, the warrior who had fallen first spun sharply and hurled his spear with terrifying force. The weapon flew like a lightning bolt and tore straight through the other warrior's helmet, bursting out the back of his skull. Blood sprayed across the sand as the body collapsed lifelessly. The crowd on that side erupted in wild cheers, their voices shaking the stadium with victory cries.
The scene then shifted to North Fell, where the land lay buried under a thick sheet of snow. Yet in the midst of that frozen white, a strange spring lay steaming—its waters always warm, growing hotter the colder the world around it became. At the edge of that mist-covered pool stood the woman once seen in red; today she wore a flowing black dress, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders, a thin shawl drawn lightly over her head. Her name was Marian Haunt. She gazed into the trembling surface of the water, studying her reflection with unreadable calm. Slowly she bent down, letting one finger glide over the heated water—just a ripple, and her soul slipped free, drawn away from her body like a shadow unchained.
Night fell in an instant. Marian's spirit now stood inside a dim room filled with coarse laughter and the sharp smell of spilt ale. Music thudded from a corner where men drank without restraint. The place resembled a tavern dark wooden beams, smoke-stained walls, and a dozen Vaisya drifting between tables. No one saw her; her soul moved like a whisper through the room until she reached a man seated quietly in a corner. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, eyes closed, hands resting calmly on the arms of his chair, as though the chaos around him did not exist. She approached him silently, and without opening his eyes, he spoke first.
"Marian Haunt," he murmured, a low voice curling out like a serpent's breath. "Even your soul walks with purpose."
"And darkness still recognizes me," she replied, taking the chair opposite him though her form barely touched it. "Tell me, why call my spirit to this den of noise and weakness?"
His lips tugged into a thin smile. "Because weakness reveals truth. Men show their real selves only when drunk, desperate… or dying." He finally opened his eyes—cold, sharp, glimmering like steel in moonlight. "And today, we speak not of men. We speak of souls."
Marian's form flickered as she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Lyna's?"
A slight nod. "Her soul trembles between two worlds," he said. "Caught… but not yet claimed. If she slips to the other side before we act, the balance will break."
Marian's expression tightened, shadows shifting in her spectral features. "Then guide me. I will reach her."
"You don't find a lost soul, Marian," he said with a soft, mocking chuckle. "You pull it back with the same darkness that tried to steal it." He rose, placing an ethereal hand on her shoulder—his touch cold, yet somehow grounding her wandering form. "Come. She is waiting."
Together they drifted through a narrow passage at the back of the tavern, descending into a cavernous chamber carved deep beneath the earth. There, lying pale and unmoving upon the stone floor, was Lyna—unconscious, her breaths shallow as though clinging to life by threads unseen. Marian knelt beside her, her ghostly hand hovering over the girl's cheek, passing through it like a ripple of cold wind.
"If the task succeeds," Marian whispered, her voice soft .
Just as Marian leaned closer to Lyna's fading spirit, a sudden pull wrenched through her being—swift, cold, undeniable. The cavern dissolved into darkness, and in a breath she was back beside the steaming spring, her body jolting upright as her soul slammed into place. A firm hand rested on her shoulder. She turned sharply and found herself staring into the stern, weather-worn face of the King of North Fell. Frost clung to his beard, yet his eyes glowed with an ancient knowing. His fingers still hovered above the water, where the last trace of her soul's reflection rippled away.
"You wander too far, Marian," the king said, his voice deep as winter stone. "Black magic answers to no one—not even to those who believe they control it."
Marian steadied her breath, brushing damp strands of hair from her cheek. "I walk where I must, my king. If I do not use the darkness, it will consume the girl. You know this."
The king's jaw tightened as he paced slowly beside her. "I know that every time you touch this magic, it takes something from you. A memory… a feeling… a piece of your will. One day, Marian, you may not return from the other side."
"And if I don't act," she replied, rising to stand beside him, "Lyna will be lost forever. The balance will fall. Tell me, my king—what price is greater than a kingdom's collapse?"
For a moment he said nothing, only stared at the mist curling above the boiling spring. Then, with a heavy sigh, he nodded. "Very well. But you will not walk this darkness alone."
Together they stepped away from the water, their silhouettes merging with the drifting snow as they prepared for the path ahead.
The scene shifted once more to Wesron Fell, where the great tournament had reached its final roar. Dust swirled in the air, banners trembled in the wind, and the crowd thundered with applause as the victor—an armored champion—stood tall in the center of the arena. Moments later he was escorted before the king, bowing deeply as the last echoes of battle faded.
"You have earned your reward," the king announced, his voice carrying across the hushed hall. "Speak your desire."
The warrior lifted his helm, revealing sharp features marked with pride and determination. "My king," he said clearly, "grant me this: allow me to travel to North Fell. I wish to serve as your shield there—to guard your command even beyond these borders."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered lords. The king studied the man for a long moment, weighing his words. Then he rose from his throne and declared, "So be it. You shall ride with the next envoy to North Fell… and serve as protector in my name."
The hall erupted in acclaim as the champion bowed once more—his path now entwined with the distant, snow-covered kingdom.
Far above, the sky was a deep, endless blue—an ocean without shores. No land could be seen in any direction, only the rolling waves beneath. Out of that vast emptiness, a ship emerged… then another… and soon four or five great vessels cut through the waters with thunderous force. Their hulls were built like the warships heavy timber reinforced with iron bands, sails stretched wide like the wings of beasts, and prows carved with fierce symbols meant to strike fear before the clash of steel. From each mast flew a green banner—the sigil of House Haunt. Upon the flag, a perfect circle was painted, and inside it two swords crossed each other in eternal defiance. The fleet sped toward the capital with relentless urgency, as though the sea itself pushed them forward.
Far away in North Fell, within a modest tent of a wandering tribe, a young girl sat quietly, lighting a lantern against the creeping cold. Her father lay behind her, his breathing weak—his illness worsening by the day. Once the lantern glowed warm and steady, she attended to him, lifting a cup of water to his cracked lips. Only after he drank did she wrap herself tightly in thick winter cloth and step outside. The winds bit sharply, yet she ran without pause through the snow-covered paths until she reached her brother's forge.
Her brother—a blacksmith of notable skill—stood amid hanging weapons: rows of swords, axes, chisels, and heavy hammers, each glinting in the firelight. Sparks leapt as he shaped a fresh blade upon the anvil, strengthening its core with practiced strokes. His sister rushed in, breathless. "Brother… Father's medicine is nearly gone," she said.
He paused, wiping sweat from his brow. "Go prepare food," he replied gently. "I'll try to bring the medicine by evening. But I must sell this weapon first."
Just then, a man from their tribe stepped into the forge, nodding to the boy. Calling him by name—Molten Richard—he asked in a calm voice, "So, what's the plan today?"
Molten sighed. "Nothing, really… Just need to buy Father's medicine by evening. And before that, I must sell this weapon."
The man lowered his voice, leaning closer. "Then come. To Rumale Bazaar. There your fine weapon will fetch a good price."
In Rumale Bazaar—an old market where one could find almost anything—there stood a small shop where a man sold goods together with Molten. Next to them was a ghost-seller's shop, and many other small stalls lined the narrow street. Just then, a group of men arrived on horseback. They shouted at the shopkeeper, "Frankers! Close your shop. This land doesn't belong to you—it falls under the king's rule. If you want to use this place, you must pay a monthly fee." Hearing this, both Frankers and Molten quickly gathered their belongings and left for the medicine house. Inside, a woman sat behind the counter, handing out medicines. The medicines were expensive, so Frankers gave some of his own coins to help. By the time they finished, evening had fallen, and the two began walking back home. But when Molten reached his tent, he froze—his sister was stepping out of the tribe's shelter, standing with a few castle guards. Molten rushed forward and asked, "Why are you outside? And what are you doing with these men?" The castle guards replied coldly, "We are here to discuss land matters. The king has ordered that you will leave this house. You may stay here only until your father dies—after that, this land will no longer belong to you." Hearing this, Molten burst into anger and struck one of the guards. At once, two guards drew their swords and placed them against his neck. Molten stood helpless, unable to fight back. After a moment, the guards left. Molten took his frightened sister back into the tent and handed the medicine to his father. "Here… this is your medicine," he said quietly. His father asked, "Who was outside?" Molten replied softly, "Nobody… just some people."
Molten's father had heard everything. The moment the guards left, he lay silently, completely shattered from within. He did not say a single word, but inside, he broke apart. He buried his pain deep in his heart and quietly cried through the evening. Night had already fallen by the time his daughter brought food to him. Seeing him asleep, she did not want to wake him, so she stepped outside and walked toward the sheep near the tents to distribute food among them.
The scene then shifted to the castle. In a dimly lit chamber, Twin Hodril sat before a blazing fire, its flames reflecting sharply in his cold eyes. His wife, Horan Hodril, entered quietly and wrapped her arms around him from behind. "You should not regret anything," she whispered softly. "We all know Marian is lying… especially about Lyna." Twin did not respond. He simply listened, then stood and lay down on the bed without a word. Horan sat beside him and continued, "There is another matter. A letter came from Haunt House—they're planning an attack on Wesron Fell." Twin frowned. "The letter came to you?" Horan smiled faintly and shook her head. "No… it came for Marian. I found it in her room."
Horan lay down beside Twin on the bed and kissed him softly before blowing out the lantern. Darkness filled the room.
Far away, in a world not her own, Lyna's trapped soul stepped out of the cavern where she had been held. It was a pitch-black night, the sky swallowed by shadows. She hurried into the forest, hoping desperately that she could escape this strange dimension. But the deeper she went, the clearer the sounds became—wolves howling, strange beasts growling, footsteps crunching against snow. Fear clutched her chest, and she began to run.
meanwhile in Medown House, where Lyna's real body lay beside Tyler. Suddenly, her body jolted violently. Her lips trembled, her limbs stiffened, and her entire body began to shake uncontrollably. Tyler woke with a gasp, terrified, calling for help as she held Lyna tightly.
Meanwhile, Lyna's soul—still running through the forest—spotted a large tree and hid behind it, breath trembling. Just then, a hand reached from the darkness and grabbed her wrist, pulling her backward.
The world shifted again—now to North Fell. Molten entered the tent to feed his father. But when he touched his father's hand, he froze. There was no warmth. No pulse. No breath. His father's body was cold as stone. The truth struck him like a blade—his father was gone. With shaking hands, Molten lifted his father's head into his lap and broke down, crying helplessly as the snow whispered outside the tent.
The scene returned to Lyna's soul. The woman who had pulled her was no stranger—it was her mother, Certlen Klingers, the woman long believed to have run away, lost to rumors and time. Tears filled Certlen's eyes as she embraced her daughter tightly. They stood in a dim, silent room—only one lantern burned faintly in the darkness above. Outside, strange screams still echoed.
Lyna, trembling, asked, "What are those sounds? How long have you been here? How… how is this possible? I waited for you so long…"
Her words broke into tears as she clutched her mother's hands.
Certlen stroked her hair gently and whispered, "Enough, my child… enough. Your mother is here now."
On the Southern Island, Taibitha stood alone on the rocky shore, holding a long, sharp green stone in her hand. Its surface glowed faintly, as though something ancient breathed within it. She looked at Ozar and said quietly, "This is the relic I entrusted to you. Keep it safe. I will return soon to take it back."
Meanwhile, Rigal stood on the topmost roof of the castle, gazing at the vast sky from the balcony as cold winds brushed against him. Marian was in her chamber, bathing in a stone tub lit only by a single candle. As she closed her eyes, the water around her slowly turned red, glowing like liquid fire.
Far away, on a silent mountain slope, Melton sat beside his father's lifeless body. A grave had already been dug next to him. He laid his father gently to rest and covered the grave with trembling hands. At the head of the grave, Melton planted his father's sword firmly into the ground, its blade catching the pale light of dawn. His sister slept in the nearby tent, unaware of the grief unfolding outside.
At that same moment, Rigal lifted his head and watched a falling star streak across the night sky. Marian opened her eyes as the red water stilled once more.
And in Medown House, an eerie animal cry echoed through the air. Lyna's shaking body suddenly grew still. Her chest rose in a deep, silent breath as her eyes opened—shimmering bright, unnatural blue.