The sun was shining, birds were singing, and yellow leaves adorned the streets and surroundings of Nilfalion. The sounds in and around the capital were varied. From toasts early in the morning, to the sounds of love—which, according to some, was long overdue—all the way to the creaking of cargo carts and the bustle of merchants in the streets. There were merchants even outside the city, and they were of all kinds: from sellers of the worst types of swords that would last for a single duel before they could be thrown away, to shields made of supposedly "fine wood," at least according to the words of their sellers; if you believed that planks of willow glued together with resin and polished just enough to look shiny made a good shield, then those were the right shields for you.
Of course, there were also masterful smiths whose skills and works were known not only in Tolan, but throughout the entire continent. Tents surrounded the royal capital, and the great walls of old gray stone protected the inhabitants of Nilfalion. The outer walls stood around twenty meters high, constantly patrolled by guards and watchmen. The city was entered across a great drawbridge, which stretched over the moat encircling the largest city of Tolan. The moat was six meters deep, and its water reached three meters, so the whole thing looked either half-empty or half-full, depending on one's perspective.
The wooden bridge was worn and darkened from many past rains and snows, as well as other harsh weather conditions. Nilfalion was one of the oldest cities not only in Tolan, but on the continent, with only a handful older than it. Its age showed in its fortifications—they were still sturdy, yet undeniably ancient. The dark, gray stone had stood in the same place for centuries, withstanding many battles, sieges, and various hardships that had befallen it. Yet Nilfalion still stood.
The interior of the city was filled with numerous streets and alleyways, some larger and some smaller, and the many houses in the lower part of the city where its people lived made up most of the structures. Besides ordinary homes, there were taverns, bakeries, forges, and one unusual building near the edge of the city walls. It was a peculiar structure in which young mages trained—ten of them, a small few who showed even the slightest talent for manipulating magical runes. Magic was so rare that even those with the faintest sign of affinity were accepted, and even then there were only about ten of them. Still, the man who led their training was one of the greatest mages on the continent—a man who had fought in all kinds of battles and was known for returning mostly unhurt, which was not something his opponents could say.
The upper part of Nilfalion, as the locals called it, was not literally higher in elevation, but referred to the royal castle and the royal courtyard enclosed separately from the rest of the city. The castle and courtyard were surrounded by walls within the outer walls. The walls of the royal castle rose about ten meters, varying from battlement to battlement—nine meters in some places, eleven in others. Within those walls lay the royal courtyard, which held the armory, the barracks of the royal guard, the stables, and, on its far side, a large garden adorned with flowers in every color brought from all corners of the kingdom. The most famous of them grew beside the well. Surrounding it were the stems of the Crown Stream-blossom, a flower that grew only in the central ravines of Tolan but had been brought here during the reign of the previous king Vinjeon, Ailred's father, in hopes it would take root—and it had. Its beautiful light-blue petals, marked with touches of purple and pink, breathed freshness beside the deep water hole.
The courtyard was entered through a double wooden gate operated by rotating wooden gears that pulled it inward. A cobbled path led through the courtyard directly to the entrance of the castle. The castle itself was magical—its walls of white marble with streaks of bluish granite were carved with various motifs of Tolan, ranging from leaves and branches to runes and other magical symbols. The doors were simple dark-wood doors, once lowered behind iron grates, but not today. Today, the doors were wide open, and many familiar and unfamiliar guests of King Ailred and his Masters were entering through them. The feast was scheduled for the evening, but many were coming because they had business with the supreme ruler of Tolan beforehand.
Most of the unfamiliar people remained outside, wandering among the tents, stalls, and the occasional streets of Nilfalion. The day before had been marked by light rain in this part of the kingdom, which made the air somewhat muggy and thick. Still, it bothered no one. Taverns had been busy from early morning, hosting guests from all over the kingdom. The smiths too had their hands full.
The sort of people who arrived in the greatest number were those who represented honor, duty, and obligation: knights. Famous and unknown, wandering and sworn, old and young—there were all sorts of them, all gathered for one reason: to win the hand of their king's beautiful daughter. On the meadow before the city, tents of every color stood—dark green with a beech leaf, light brown with an oak emblem, and even purple and dark blue adorned with vine leaves and water-creeper symbols. Knights came from the Tasserah family, who controlled some of the largest iron mines; from the Tail family, known for powerful warriors and great leaders, whose ancestors had always served in the royal guard; and representatives of the Silsillir and Wysatris families, among the most famous names in all of Tolan. Their banners fluttered in the wind, under the sun and occasional shadows. Of course, not all knights were of high birth—some were wanderers, and some sworn to their lords. Still, they too had come to try their luck, for the princess's hand would not go to the richest, the most famous, the most handsome, the ugliest, the tallest, or the shortest. The opportunity to propose to the princess would be given to the one who won the tournament organized by King Ailred. He believed only the most skilled and honorable warrior could have the hand of his only female heir.
Near Nilfalion lay a small grove and beside it a stream—clear and bright, half a meter deep at its deepest point. Near it were mostly wandering knights who had no place among the highborn, and others who had come to refresh themselves. Some wore light clothing—cotton trousers, usually black or dark brown, and linen shirts, usually white, rarely any other color.
"What do you think, who's winning the tournament?" Three men dressed in light clothing sat by the bank. One of them was fishing, hoping the little fish he had spotted in the clear water were at least somewhat hungry, while the other two kept him company, enjoying the breeze and mulled wine.
"Probably Gordon Tair. I heard he reached the semifinals of several past tournaments, and before that even the finals. Besides, he'll likely inherit the Southern Valleys after his lord father dies," said the man with a long red beard and a bald head, taking a deep sip of wine.
"I think the winner will be Amel Tasserah. It's expected that our king's daughter will marry well. I believe the king himself would want a strong connection to that family," added the other older man, about the same age as the first—late forties, soon to seek less strenuous work than wandering knight. His face was clean yet hard and square, marked with tiny scars. His hair was short, pale brown with a few gray strands, all revealing his age—someone might even think he was over fifty.
"And what about the king's younger son?" asked the youngest knight, the fisherman. He was in his early twenties, with short, thick dark-brown hair, and a few strands on his cheeks that showed his youth—he still couldn't grow a proper beard. His face was triangular but well-shaped, with a sharp chin. The older two looked at him sharply, silent yet intrigued. The red-bearded one refilled the other man's wooden mug of hot drink, scooping out a generous portion with a wooden ladle and filling his own as well. The scent of honey and dark cinnamon filled the air, and steam curled above their wooden cups.
"You'd better keep fishing, boy," he said, handing him mulled wine. "You've still got much to learn." There had been no tugs on the line for a long while, and the wind still gently brushed the water's surface, forming clear little ripples.
Through the castle corridors walked all kinds of people—from those carrying items needed to prepare the great main hall for the evening feast, to cooks, maids, the royal guard, high officials, lords, masters, and many other occupations. King Ailred sat in the small audience hall, built of the same stone as the castle walls—snow-white marble with a hint of blue. In the center of the room was a rectangular table made of reddish wood; King Ailred liked that color and had ordered this table specifically for this hall, as reddish was also the color of his queen's hair. The rest of the room was filled with items such as flower pots containing blossoms ranging from pink rose petals to green vines climbing gently along the walls. The room radiated the freshness the flowers produced, and all three double windows were wide open, letting in pleasant airflow.
"The current situation remains unchanged, Your Majesty," said a tall man in a light-red suit with touches of yellow. His jacket was red, as were his trousers, while his linen shirt was a pleasant yellow adorned with silver epaulettes. His face was older—he was in his fifties—and his long black hair streaked with gray revealed the same. He was already dressed for the evening dinner but had business with the king.
"Trade with the Empire is still stable, and we have no information from Ganalor. I assume only you know why," he said. The king cast him a sharp look, but the two had known each other a long time, and the Master of Trade knew not to pry too deeply into foreign affairs.
"Trade with Luganor is stable, but ever since the fall of Ogrvol, it has been slowly declining."
King Ailred pondered as the master spoke in his slow, rasping tone.
"Aren't the troops we sent to Ogrvol helping?" he wondered. "I'm quite certain the Darni aren't attacking our soldiers. I've been extremely lenient with them, and so far we've had no trouble with internal affairs." These were the thoughts of the king of Tolan, and he was right. As far as he knew, there was an unwritten agreement that the Darni were a free people on the edges of Tolan, and that no one would harm them so long as they did not endanger the majority of the population. What happened in Ogrvol crossed many lines, but since it was outside his kingdom's borders, he had no reason, by his reasoning, to punish them.
"No matter," he began aloud, deep and kingly. "We can take care of ourselves. As long as trade with the Empire is stable, we have nothing to fear, do we?"
"Well… in principle, that's true. But you must consider the relations we'll have with Luganor in the future."
"Don't worry. I'm quite certain they depend on us far more than we do on them." The king concluded confidently, then stood to look through the window overlooking the castle courtyard. There, some workers were raising a large tent under which guests would dine outside. The clinking of hammers rang out as they drove stakes into the ground, tightening the ropes around the great white canvas. Ailred stood there, watching proudly.
"This year, there are many people—invited and uninvited alike."
"That's true," he agreed. "But if we're being honest, most are not here because of me." King Ailred knew well why his fiftieth name-day was so well attended—it was also the twentieth name-day of his daughter Merlara. It was time for her marriage, and suitors were plentiful judging by the number of tents and banners fluttering inside and outside Nilfalion.
"Will he participate as well?" asked the Master, knowing it was a sensitive question; the expression on his face soured the moment he spoke, but he had already said it. Yet Ailred did not seem angry or annoyed—rather calm and composed.
"If that is his wish, let him participate. No one can stop him." The king paused and turned toward the Master. "It is known that all highborn youths throughout the kingdom are welcome to seek my daughter's hand, as long as they are not related to her by blood." Ailred looked out the window again as some small birds flew across the sky, their tiny flock hardly noticeable from afar.
"He has the right to seek her hand. Even if he is my adopted son." A cloud passed before the sun, and it burst forth again, flooding the room with light.Tiny particles of dust were visible drifting in the beam of the celestial light, while the king's long blonde hair—braided and falling over his left shoulder—took on a new golden sheen.
Through the hurried corridors of the castle walked a young man, slightly taller than average and with a well-built body. He was muscular, but not bulky—rather lean. That could not be seen beneath his silk, light-green ceremonial robe, decorated with patterns resembling wheat fields that shimmered with a soft silver glow. The heels of his black shoes clicked sharply as he skillfully avoided the many people rushing through the hall.
His face was fair, clean, and youthful. His hair was blonde, parted in the middle, reaching halfway down his head just above the ears—slicked back neatly, fresh and shiny. It framed his rectangular face with well-defined features, while his transparent, grayish sky-blue eyes held a sharp gaze.
At twenty-one years old, Prince Aias Vinjeon was the eldest and the only male blood heir to his father, the king. He was in a hurry—his expression composed, yet frustration boiled within him as he approached his destination. When he arrived, he stopped before the light-brown wooden door and knocked, but got no answer. He only heard a woman's moaning inside, growing louder. He entered the room abruptly.
There he found Vesryn, his adopted brother, and a young girl with long, fiery, messy red hair. Her face was round, pale, flushed in the cheeks, sweaty, with blue eyes similar to Aias's. At the prince's entrance, the two hurried to cover themselves with a blanket, staring at him, while he stood in the doorway, frustrated.
Their clothes were scattered on the floor—her house dress in all shades of green lay beside Vesryn's black-dark-green attire. For a moment, silence fell, broken only by their breathing and the sound of the wind entering through the half-open window.
"Hurry up and get dressed," the prince cut through the monotony sharply.
"The tournament starts in an hour."
He then left the room and closed the door.
Not far from the shores of Ganalor, the sea was calm, silver, and shimmering. The storm seemed like it had never existed—lightning, thunder, rain, and wind were already forgotten.
"We'll soon be about twenty kilometers from the shores of Ganalor. We're currently between Holn Island and the nearest coastline," said Captain Irie Sukekazu, taking a sip from his leather flask. The 'Sekibune' was steady, the waves gently splashing against it and wetting the sturdy hull.
Vice Admiral Sana Asukai and her first captain were in her cabin, looking over a map. Their task was to intercept pirates who often attacked in these waters, but so far they had made no progress.
Her first mate was relaxed—being an older man, he was no longer eager for action. He could barely wait to retire and train new generations of sailors. Sana, on the other hand, stared impatiently at the map, waiting for information that would finally get her out of this cramped cabin, decorated with nothing but a central table and the lanterns on the walls that were lit at night. There was a chair as well,but she rarely had the urge to relax on a mission.
"Vice Admiral!" a shout came from the deck. Sana rushed outside; when she opened the door, the draft from the open window nearly blew the map off the table, but the captain caught it. Unenthusiastically, he followed her, the sea breeze slapping his face.
The rest of the crew was already at the ready, each at their post. They tightened the sail and lowered the oars to slow down so they could better observe the situation. The soft but powerful thuds of the wooden oars hitting the water echoed around them, and the ship produced deep groaning sounds as its keel and hull skimmed slowly across the cold surface.
Sana practically ran onto the deck, but when she realized there was no one there, she was far from pleased. Her face showed it—she had long grown tired of waiting, sitting with her arms crossed. They had traveled so far through last night's terrible weather to intercept pirates and end them, yet nothing came of it.
She walked toward the edge of the deck with a slow, weary stride to see why she had been summoned. Her first mate followed behind her. The ship moved gently, and around it, on the surface of the water, floated remnants of wreckage—planks, hooks, pieces of rope, severed limbs here and there, sailcloth, even a small piece of a black sail with a silver depiction of Luganor's mountain peak.
Everyone stared in shock and fascination—everyone except Admiral Asukai and Captain Sukekazu. They remained calm, though their minds raced with questions.
"We're turning around," she ordered in her unusually low pitched but as always sharp voice. She always deepened it when giving commands so she would be clearly heard.
The sailors pulled in the oars and loosened the sail, and she stepped toward the helm, her black cloak fluttering in the wind as she climbed up to it.
"What could have happened here?" Captain Sukekazu wondered aloud.
"We're late. We missed the battle—obviously," she replied, irritated.
"We're returning to Nagisamachi. Quickly."
"Kjaran…" A deep,commanding voice called the captain in his thoughts.
"You two must look after each other—don't forget that," the voice echoed in his mind.
"Kjaran… Kjaran." Something nudged him, then hit him lightly, then slapped him.
"Wake up, for fuck's sake."
He opened his eyes abruptly and sat up. Breathing heavily, he gasped for air. Beneath him he felt soft, wet sand. When he turned his head, he saw a man sitting beside him—someone he did not expect to see. His beard was black and long, and his face bruised blue from last night's battle.
"Waeskian?" he said in surprise. He grabbed his arm—everything hurt.
"Where are we?"
"Don't you recognize these shores, Kjaran?" emphasized the former pirate captain, whose ship lay long sunk on the silver seabed.
"These are the shores of Ganalor."