Inside the Wingman Castle, the vast chamber of the king stood silent, the tall windows glowing faintly with the dim morning light. The king sat alone on his heavy metal throne, his fingers tapping nervously against the armrest, until a firm knock struck the door. His eyes rose slowly.
"Enter," he commanded.
The doors opened at once. Several men stepped inside, all wearing long coats, polished gloves, and expressions cold enough to freeze the entire hall. Their footsteps echoed with an authority that did not belong to this kingdom.
At their center walked Grover.
Grover—black hair neatly pressed back, sharp eyes behind thin glass, and a physique that looked ordinary at first glance but carried a presence heavy enough to bend the room's air. His men flanked him like shadows, silent and loyal.
"Long time no see… King," Grover said, his voice steady, controlled, and almost casual.
Two of his men moved past the king without hesitation. One pulled out a chair for Grover as if this were his castle, his throne, his rule. Grover sat with a calm, respectful posture—yet everyone knew he was a man whose seriousness could shatter mountains. Humble at times, yes, but when he chose to be powerful, he was enormous.
The king swallowed hard. "What kind of trick is this? I am following your orders."
Grover's eyes narrowed.
"Seems like this city has become a silent, ruined abyss," he murmured. His voice was calm, but the weight behind it sent a chill crawling over the king's arms. Grover stared directly at him—long, unblinking—until goosebumps rose on the king's skin.
"The darkness is casting bad shadows," Grover continued. "Indeed… it is a bad omen."
His tone was heavy as a stone, and his presence felt mysteriously suffocating.
The king shifted uneasily. "Why did you come here? Is there anything you want?"
"Yes… yes… exactly."
Grover leaned forward slightly.
"I want something called answers. And I am glad you will be able to give me some… won't you, fake-egoed king?"
The king gasped silently. His breathing grew uneven. The room around him—decorated with artifacts, golden cups, treasures stacked lazily on the table—suddenly felt like a trap closing in.
Grover didn't pause.
"Why was there no reaction taken when enormous amounts of murders and rebellions caused havoc in this city? Why is bribery flowing like water? And third…" Grover's voice sharpened,
"…why are you the king?"
The king's lips trembled. "There were certain actions… that had consequences. And to avoid them I had to do— and follow the orders—"
Grover cut him off instantly.
"Whose orders? Under whom authority did you follow them? Why do you obey orders that were never meant for safety? And who gave you those orders?"
The king's face turned pale. His hands shook. "I… I gave those orders…"
Grover remained silent for a moment. Then he stood up slowly, his coat shifting with his movements like a warning signal.
"I give you three days," he said. "Find me the answers. Otherwise, you will be executed. And don't try to run… because I will be watching you."
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the king frozen. He stared at the ink bottle on the table, watching the ink settle inside the glass—his emotions sinking with it. Despair wrapped him just as tightly as when he first walked into this doomed throne.
---
Meanwhile, far from the castle's suffocating atmosphere, a horse snorted as the metal plate—still hot from being shaped—was being engraved into one of its hooves. Aron knelt beside it, firm hands gripping the horse's leg so the plate wouldn't slip.
Balrad, panting slightly, brushed his long brown hair aside. "Okay, it's fine. Good job," he said, patting the horse's neck. Aron wiped the sweat off his forehead and stepped back.
Soon after, they both moved inside the blacksmith area. The sound of metal striking metal filled the air. Balrad hammered a hot blade rhythmically until he noticed something. He looked toward Aron.
Aron was focused—hammering steadily, then dipping the blade into water. The hiss of steam rose. Balrad nodded with a half-smile.
"I guess kids really learn quickly, ain't they?" he said, amused.
They continued pounding the heated sword, shaping it with patience and strength. Sweat ran down Aron's face as he worked harder than usual.
After a while, Balrad stepped back, breathing out. "I'm going out for a while, Aron. I need to go to the city. Keep doing your job, okay?"
Aron nodded silently, his hands already returning to the glowing steel.
Balrad left… and Aron was alone.
But not completely.
A faint, ethereal shadow crept across the window. At first it stayed hidden, watching. Then Aron's eyes met it. He froze. The hammer slipped slightly from his hand.
The shadow vanished instantly.
Aron rushed outside, stepping into the sunlight, blinking as the warm brightness hit his eyes. He scanned the outside of the window—nothing. The area was quiet. Too quiet.
Then, a whisper—soft as drifting air.
Aron turned his eyes toward the bench a little distance from the house. There—someone was sitting. Their form unclear, almost blending with the surroundings. Slowly, the figure lifted a hand… pointing toward the direction of the big mountain.
Aron's voice came out low, emotionless. "Who are you?"
No answer.
The shadow dissolved into the atmosphere, leaving Aron standing alone, the earth silent around him.
Aron exhaled. "I truly don't care," he muttered. "Choose someone else. Let me live my life."
The birds chirped overhead, peaceful, calm, free. Their sound felt almost separate from everything happening.
Far from this place… miles beyond the great mountain…
a small wooden house rested in a quiet valley.
A girl stood outside, lifting washed clothes and hanging them on a rope to dry. Her long brown hair, with strands of white at the ends, swayed gently in the breeze.
As she placed another cloth on the rope, something made her pause.
She slowly turned her face toward the distant hill, the wind brushing her hair away from her eyes.