Night did not fall on the Nameless Kingdom.
It slid down the mountains like a sheet of black glass, too smooth, too fast—unnatural even for this land whose boundaries were beginning to unravel.
Torches guttered for no reason.
Dogs refused to bark.
The moon held its breath.
The guards on the eastern wall felt the shift first.
Their armor vibrated as if touched by invisible fingers.
The air rippled.
Then the forest parted—
—a clean, surgical split—
—and the Bloodthorn Envoys marched through.
I. The Procession of Thorns
They came in pairs.
Twelve envoys.
Twelve thorns.
Twelve reasons to fear.
Their armor was lacquered crimson, veined with branching glyph-lines that pulsed like living roots. Every step they took sprouted thorned vines from the earth behind them, twisting in their wake like serpents tasting the air.
At their head walked Envoy-Marshal Iskarel, a tall figure whose helm resembled a skull carved from bloodstone. His cloak dragged across the ground with a soft rasping noise—like briars searching for flesh.
Behind him, four attendants carried an object sealed in chains of red iron.
Something that glowed faintly through the cracks.
Something small.
Something impossibly heavy.
A dead star.
They carried it on a litter of carved bone and thornwood, but even then their hands shook.
It was the kind of artifact kings declared wars over.
The kind used to rewrite fates, erase borders, or end bloodlines.
Tonight, it was a message.
II. The City Holds Its Breath
The procession reached the outer gates.
Guards lifted trembling spears.
Iskarel raised a single hand.
The vines at his feet slithered up the gatehouse walls, curling around hinges, making wood groan.
He didn't speak.
He demanded—
"Open."
The gates obeyed long before the guards did.
The city's citizens watched from windows and rooftops as the Bloodthorn Envoys cut a straight line toward the Pale Citadel. Mothers clutched their children. Scholars whispered prayers to gods who had gone deaf.
Somewhere high above, the Astral Wheel of Lineage groaned, its fractured runes flickering in agitation.
III. The Dead Star Awakens
Halfway to the palace, the object on the litter pulsed.
THUMP.
The nearest envoy gasped as if punched in the chest.
THUMP.
The vines on his armor tightened, drawing blood.
THUMP.
Then the chains began to rattle.
The dead star was waking.
Iskarel barked—
"Secure it."
But the attendants were shaking too hard to obey.
The pulse grew louder.
Hungrier.
On the rooftops, children cried.
Animals bolted.
Lanterns blew out.
The star cracked open like a rotten fruit.
A single strip of dying starlight leaked out—
—and pointed directly at the Pale Citadel.
The prophecy embedded within the star whispered, distorted and broken:
"A KINGDOM WITHOUT A NAME…
HAS NO FATE TO CLAIM.
THE FIRST CROWN WILL FALL."
The envoy attendants fell to their knees.
One screamed.
The others did not—they had no breath left to.
IV. The Maskbearer Appears
A streak of black moved across a nearby roof.
The Maskbearer stepped into view, silhouetted against the trembling moon. His cloak hung motionless despite the rising wind. The crack in his mask—sealed earlier—throbbed faintly, responding to the star's death throes.
Iskarel saw him and froze.
No one in Bloodthorn forgot the legends.
No one forgot the warning.
If you ever see the Maskbearer,
you have already angered something older than kings.
Iskarel announced—
"You have no authority here."
The Maskbearer's voice drifted down like a shadow falling across a blade.
"Replied— Neither do you."
The dead star pulsed again.
Harder.
V. What the Dead Star Reveals
A halo of cracked starlight erupted, swirling upward like dying snowflakes. Each fragment projected an image—memories of the star's final moments before it was slain.
The people gasped as visions spilled into the night sky:
—The Bloodthorn royal court swarmed by shadows wearing human faces.
—A queen screaming as her crown melted into liquid iron.
—A temple collapsing inward as if swallowed by its own heartbeat.
—Something vast behind the sky ripping a hole in reality, reaching down with hands made of absence.
Then the final vision:
A masked figure.
Not the Maskbearer.
Different mask.
White.
Porcelain.
Expressionless.
Breaking the star with a touch.
The air froze.
Iskarel's voice quivered beneath his helm.
"Explained— That is why we came. That… thing is hunting the Crowns.
This dead star is our only warning."
The Maskbearer whispered behind his mask—
"So the Pale Herald wasn't the beginning… but the second blow."
VI. The Maskbearer Makes His Choice
The starlight dimmed.
The visions dissolved.
The vines on the envoys' armor wilted.
The dead star finally went dark—completely, irrevocably.
The Maskbearer dropped from the rooftop, landing silently before Iskarel. The cobblestones did not even crack.
He murmured—
"Replied— Take me to the queen. She will want to see this."
Iskarel hesitated.
The Maskbearer tilted his head.
For a moment, the crack in the mask glowed—
—and the vines around Iskarel's boots recoiled in instinctive terror.
He gave a stiff nod.
"Announced— Very well.
But understand something, Masked one.
Bloodthorn does not kneel to shadows."
The Maskbearer walked past him without turning.
"Answered— Then learn to kneel to truths."
The procession reformed.
The citizens whispered.
The Pale Citadel loomed ahead like a dying god.
The first alliance was about to form.
Or shatter.
And the first kingdom's countdown had already begun.