Daemon read on, the pages of the old book so fragile they felt like ash clinging to time. The ink, aged and brown, still etched every word like a whisper echoing through centuries.
—In the year of the Raven's Eclipse, Arthur von Hurellious made his preparations to enter the Royal Academy, accompanied by a shadow not unlike himself—Aisha. The account begins thus—
Arthur stood before a grand mirror in the war room of his hidden estate, where no banners hung and no prayers were spoken. The light from a single candle flickered across his sharp face—unaged, unmoved, unreadable. His hair, bound in a black silk tie, caught the glimmer of flame like dark gold. He turned to the knight beside him.
"Prepare the uniform," Arthur commanded. "Simple. Civilian. I want nothing regal. No sigils, no colors. I want to go as a commoner. And for her, too."
The knight, a grizzled veteran with the scars of a dozen campaigns, raised his head. "For Lady Aisha as well?"
"Yes," Arthur said. "No heraldry. No name. If anyone asks, her family is dead. War orphan. Drifter."
The knight gave a small bow and departed, boots clicking against the cold stone, fading into silence.
Arthur turned. Behind him stood Aisha, arms folded, expression tense. She was no longer a child, nor yet a woman. She stood on the threshold of her identity, pulled between what she was and what he would shape her into.
He looked at her with those crimson-gold eyes. They weren't angry. They weren't soft. They were…expecting.
"I want to ask you something," he said. "And I don't want a lie. Not even a shade of one."
Aisha nodded once, firm.
"Your affiliations. Tell me everything. Your past. Family. Lovers. Oaths. Secrets. Every thread that ties you to anything that's not… me."
She blinked, her mouth twitching as if to speak—but she stopped herself. She took a long breath, shoulders trembling as her voice came quiet.
"My father was a field captain. Killed in the South. My mother remarried a baker in the capital. I don't talk to her anymore. I was… engaged, once. A squire. He died two years ago. I have no brothers. No sisters. No debts. No secrets."
Arthur raised a brow. "You're certain?"
"Yes, sire. I burned my past when you took me in."
He stared a moment longer, as if searching for something between her pupils, a tremor, a blink, a tell. But there was none. She was stone. Not perfect, but close.
"Good," he murmured. Then he stepped
closer. So close she could feel the slow, cold rhythm of his breath. "Are you a bastard, Aisha?"
She frowned. "Nosirre. My father and mother were married."
He nodded slowly. "I see."
Then he turned away, looking back into the mirror again. His reflection now felt like a stranger—so well-dressed, so poised, so falsely noble.
"I am," he said flatly. "A bastard. Conceived in a forgotten alley in a snowstorm. My mother died bleeding onto cobblestones before the sun even rose. They say the King was my father… but he never claimed me. He feared me. My blood scared the most powerful man in the realm."
He let the words fall like ice into a dark river.
"I don't want you to forget it, Aisha," he said. "Because I never will."
She said nothing.
"I wasn't raised in halls of song. I was raised in the pits of survival. I was a shadow before I could speak. I wasn't meant to live. Yet I did. Not just lived—endured. They fed me scraps and beat me when I smiled too widely. They thought pain could make me less."
He turned again, and now there was steel in his gaze.
"They were right. Pain made me more."
Aisha's throat moved. "Then why go to the Academy, sire? Why crawl into their world when you could destroy it from the outside?"
Arthur walked past her, grabbing the old, fur-lined cloak he hadn't worn in years. The one from the day he walked out of the Imperial Castle after threatening the Grand Council. He slung it over his shoulder like a hunter returning to the wild.
"Because to break a kingdom, Aisha… you must first walk among its architects," he said. "Learn what they love. Learn what they fear. Learn where they sleep. And then, when the time comes, you rip it out from inside their lungs.
Night had arrived, and with it, a stillness settled over the obsidian towers of the Imperial Palace. The moon hung low over the city like a pale sentinel, casting its silver sheen over the dark stones and high walls. Archduke Arthur von Hurellious lay on the edge of sleep within his private chambers—an austere, cavernous room adorned with black marble columns, crimson banners, and the faint scent of iron and lavender. The crackling fireplace at the far wall was the only source of warmth, its glow dancing across the armor resting against the wall like a silent guardian.
Outside, in the dim candlelight of her modest adjacent quarters, Aisha sat upon her narrow bed, fully dressed, her cloak clutched around her. She stared at the cold floor, her brows furrowed in thought, unable to shake the image from earlier: Arthur driving a dagger into the heart of the Holy Father, the Pope of the Faith of the Seven. The man hadn't even finished his lecherous request for Allie before Arthur rose and ordered his execution without a blink.
"He didn't hesitate," she thought, her heart thudding quietly. "He didn't flinch. That was the Pope… the man worshipped by half the Empire. And Arthur carved through him like parchment."
Aisha's hands trembled slightly in her lap. Part of her—the loyal cadet—wanted to rationalize it. The Pope had committed blasphemy in Arthur's hall and tried to claim a girl as property. That alone should've earned punishment. But there was something about how Arthur did it. Effortless. Calculated. Like snapping the neck of a chicken. No ceremony, no warning, just finality.
"Is this what power truly looks like?" she wondered. "Not words. Not politics. Just… the right to kill anyone who stands in your way."
She stood up, needing air. Needing clarity. The Archduke unnerved her—not because he was monstrous, but because he was terrifyingly precise. There was a logic to his fury, and she feared what that meant for everyone in his path.
She opened her door into the corridor and immediately felt that something was wrong.
The hall was silent. Deathly so. No guards. No patrol. Not even the subtle echo of steel boots down the stone walkways. Her gut tensed.
"Where are the Black Knights?"
She stepped out slowly, one hand instinctively reaching for the dagger tucked into her waist. The halls were dim, lit only by the flicker of distant torches, their light casting long shadows along the walls. Her boots made soft sounds against the stone as she walked.
Then she saw it.
A trail of dark crimson spilling beneath a doorframe. She hesitated, knelt slowly, and saw the unmistakable form of a fallen knight. His throat had been slit, his eyes frozen in horror. One hand was stretched toward the wall, as if he had tried to sound an alarm.
"Shit," she hissed, rising and breaking into a sprint.
In Arthur's chamber, the fire crackled softly as the assassin descended from the ceiling beams, as silent as a shadow. A wire-thin blade gleamed in the light of the hearth as it plunged right into the silken sheets of the bed.
But the bed was empty.
A whisper of a voice came from behind the attacker.
"Wrong choice, cunt."
Arthur's hand moved like lightning, gripping the assassin by the back of the head and slamming it down into the steel bedframe with a sickening crunch. Before the corpse could slump to the ground, Arthur had already moved, sweeping up a blade hidden in the stone beside the fireplace.
The window exploded inward. Three more shadows leapt into the room—faceless figures in dark leathers, masks as pale as bone, wielding twin blades forged for swift death.
Arthur stepped into them.
The first swung high. Arthur ducked low, his blade rising to meet the attacker's forearm. Steel kissed flesh and severed it mid-motion. The blade dropped with the hand still clutching it. The assassin screamed, only for Arthur's boot to crush his larynx.
The second struck from the right—rapid, flurry-like movements designed to overwhelm. Arthur caught the rhythm, stepping inside the man's guard. He headbutted the assassin once, then drove his knee up with such force the ribs gave way like glass under a boot. Blood sprayed from the man's mouth as he collapsed to his knees.
The third was smart—he waited. As Arthur dispatched the others, this one vanished into the shadows, his dagger aimed for the Archduke's back.
But Arthur wasn't just brute strength.
He was war incarnate.
Without looking, Arthur twisted and flung a dagger from his belt. It sang through the air like a predator, embedding itself into the third assassin's eye with a wet pop. The figure fell backwards, twitching violently.
The room was bathed in blood and steel.
Arthur's breathing was steady.
And then the last one tried to run.
A coward—crawling toward the shattered window, thinking perhaps he could leap.
Arthur grabbed him by the collar, dragging him back. "Who sent you?" he snarled.
The assassin spat, refusing.
Arthur drew the blade up under the man's chin. "Then die like the others."
He slit the man's throat with practiced ease.
At that moment, the doors burst open.
Aisha stumbled in, her face pale with horror as she stepped into the scene—bodies bleeding across the floor, Arthur standing barefoot in the middle, his black tunic drenched in blood, eyes glowing like golden embers in the firelight.
He turned toward her, dragging one of the corpses closer. "These fuckers," he muttered, tearing a necklace from the body and tossing it to her feet.
On the metal chain hung a silver coin, etched with an eerie face, blank, ageless.
The mark of the Faceless Men.
Behind Aisha, Thomas and several Black Knights stormed in, weapons drawn.
Arthur didn't flinch. He looked at Thomas and pointed to the corpses. "I want everything. Who sent them, who contracted them, how did they get into my palace?"
Thomas bowed, his expression grim. "We'll start immediately, my lord."
Arthur looked around at the corpses one last time, as if disgusted not by the attempt, but by the sloppiness of it all.
"Someone thinks they can buy the Faceless Men," he growled. "Which means someone with coin and arrogance to match."
He turned back to Aisha, eyes locking onto hers.
"They're not here for me," he said, voice low. "They're here for what I represent. We're closer to war than I thought."
He stepped past her, his command like thunder.
"Thomas. Burn the bodies. Triple the guard. And send word to the House of Whispers… Tell them the Archduke is hunting shadows now."
And with that, Arthur left the bloodied room behind, walking barefoot through the corridor, uncaring of the trail of blood left in his wake.
Arthur strode down the corridor with the calm fury of a man who had just survived an assassination attempt without so much as blinking. His bare feet pressed against the cold marble, a streak of blood trailing faintly behind him. Behind him marched his knights—silent, alert, blades drawn—not for war, but for retribution.
Just before turning the corner, Arthur slowed and looked over his shoulder.
"Is the carriage ready for the academy?" he asked flatly, voice low but commanding.
One of his knights, a young but disciplined soldier, stepped forward and bowed his head."Yessirre. Disguised, as instructed. It's waiting by the western gate."
Arthur gave a slight nod. Then, his eyes slid sideways toward the girl standing stiffly near the hallway wall—Aisha, pale in the torchlight, her hair tousled from the wind and stress, her breath still uneven from the sprint.
He halted. Turned fully to face her.
"Why were you outside?" he asked suddenly, gaze fixed and unreadable.
She swallowed hard, caught between instinct and discipline."Sire… I—"
"Answer."
"I needed clarification," she said. Her voice was steady, but only just.
Arthur tilted his head."Clarification for what?"
Her jaw clenched. She hesitated, realizing that anything she said might be used to measure her loyalties."…Nothing."
Arthur's gaze narrowed—not angry, not suspicious—just analytical. Like a man reading an open book."Then return to your quarters," he said coldly.
She gave a curt nod."Yes, sir."
Before she turned, Arthur motioned to one of his men behind him—a knight with a scarred face and sharp silver eyes.
"Ediegr. Keep an eye on her."
The man gave a nod without words."Understood."
By the time dawn colored the sky in pale gold, the palace had returned to a state of chilling calm. The blood was gone. The bodies were ash. And the Black Knights had tripled their rotations without question.
Arthur now wore the guise of a commoner—plain black trousers, a charcoal tunic, and a hooded coat. The man could've passed as a merchant or a hunter if not for the sharpness of his eyes and the rigid confidence of his stride. Beside him, Thomas had also dressed down, muttering something about "never trusting faceless men with amateur hands."
Aisha sat across from them in the carriage, wearing a modest brown cloak, her hair tied back, trying to look like a young tutor or court scribe. But her hands kept twitching in her lap. Ediegr was beside her, arms crossed, saying nothing. Watching her. As instructed.
The disguised carriage rattled down the cobbled road through the noble district, heading toward the capital's sprawling Grand Academy of Arms and Imperial Lore. They passed through merchant stalls and commoner markets beginning to stir, past bakeries exhaling warm bread into the morning air and smiths hammering steel like distant thunder.
Inside the carriage, Arthur broke the silence.
"Thomas."
"Yes, my lord?"
"If the Faceless Men have taken coin from within our borders… I want to know who paid them. Who gave them passage? And who among the court kept silent about it?"
Thomas looked up, voice low."You believe someone inside the capital betrayed your name?"
Arthur's gold-red eyes didn't blink."I believe someone thinks the game has begun."
Aisha glanced up."Game?"
Arthur didn't look at her."The succession war. It started long before the banners were raised. First comes the silence. Then the knives. Then the fire."
She swallowed."You think one of your brothers hired the Faceless Men?"
"No," he said with a calm finality. "I think one of their wives did."
The carriage jolted to a stop.
They had arrived at the Academy.
A sprawling marble complex surrounded by towers, courtyards, and vast gardens—home to the Empire's most gifted minds and ruthless swords. Here, nobles sent their sons to become generals, and their daughters to become strategists or spies.
Arthur looked out the window with the expression of a lion walking into a herd of sheep.
"Remember," he said to the group. "No titles. No allegiance. We are simply travelers. Let them think me dead. Let them forget the scent of war."
He opened the door and stepped out into the morning sun.
From the upper balconies of the Academy, a pair of cloaked figures watched them arrive. One leaned slightly on a cane, the other tilted her head, eyes narrowing.
"He came in person?" she whispered.
The older man beside her nodded."The Archduke is always one step ahead. If he's here… it means he's hunting."
The woman smirked slightly."Then let's see how long his disguise lasts."
Far beneath them, Arthur looked up, eyes lingering for just a moment.
He felt them. Watching.
And he smiled.
The Grand Academy of Arms and Imperial Lore, bathed in golden morning light, stood proud and ancient—its ivory towers reaching toward the sky like lances of enlightenment. Its steps, courtyards, and balconies were filled with the sons and daughters of the Empire's greatest bloodlines, dressed in tailored tunics, silver-trimmed cloaks, and ornate insignias stitched in gold thread. Their voices carried laughter, gossip, and arrogance in equal measure as they lounged on stone benches and beneath flowering arches.
This was not merely a school. It was a throne in miniature—a nest where the viper eggs of noble ambition hatched.
And amid this polished garden of pride and privilege, two figures approached from the side path, not from the golden gate meant for highborns, but through the servant's archway near the old well. Their steps were quiet, their garb common. The man wore a simple black cloak, dusty boots, and a loosely fitted linen shirt. The girl beside him, her auburn hair tied in a simple braid, wore a modest brown traveler's dress, with no jewelry save for a thin silver pin near her collar.
They did not speak. They did not bow. They simply arrived.
To the lounging noble heirs, this intrusion was like a foul breeze through a ballroom. The murmuring began almost immediately.
"Who let the rabble in?" sneered one boy from the steps, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
He stood up, tall and broad-shouldered, with curled golden hair and a sapphire earring glittering on one lobe. He was dressed in emerald green, the sigil of House Vartell—a second-tier duchy known for its wealth and naval prowess.
"Now bums are allowed to walk through the Academy gates?" he added with a loud laugh, turning to his friends seated around him—laughter erupted like a ripple of applause.
Another noble, shorter with a sharp nose and cruel smile, chuckled."Maybe they're here to sweep the floors. She looks like a stablehand who got lucky."
"Or maybe he's her dog," another added, pointing at Arthur with mocking eyes."Come on, let's toss him a bone."
Arthur didn't stop walking. His expression remained completely blank. Aisha glanced sideways, her jaw tightening, her fists clenching at her side. But Arthur said nothing. He moved like a shadow across the sunlight.
That silence—it unnerved them.
The Vartell boy frowned."Hey. You. I'm talking to you, peasant." He stepped forward, blocking Arthur's path. "You think you can ignore the son of Duke Vartell?"
Arthur finally stopped. Slowly, he looked up—and something in his gaze was wrong. His eyes, burning with golden-red light beneath the hood's shadow, seemed to flicker like embers of a distant war. For a moment, the boy instinctively took a half-step back.
But pride recovered. He spat at Arthur's boot.
"Lick that clean. I'll forgive the insult."
Gasps came from a few girls nearby. Aisha looked at Arthur, her lips parting, unsure if he'd draw steel then and there. But Arthur… smiled.
Just barely.
He leaned closer to the boy, so close their faces were inches apart."Do you know what a dog does to a boot that kicks it?"
The boy sneered."Whines?"
Arthur's smile widened."Bites."
And before the boy could blink, Arthur's hand snapped out like lightning, gripping the front of the noble's tunic. With one smooth motion, he flipped the boy over his shoulder. The Duke's son slammed into the stone pavement with a loud, echoing crack. Gasps erupted from all corners. The gathered nobles jumped to their feet, many drawing short ceremonial swords, others calling for guards.
The boy groaned, spitting blood from a cut lip. Arthur stood over him. Calm. Still. Unmoving.
"Next time," Arthur said coolly, "bring your father. I eat better dogs than you for breakfast."
"You bastard—!" shouted another noble, charging forward with his blade.
But Aisha moved first.
Her training as a royal guard cadet kicked in. With a spin, she kicked the noble's wrist, sending the blade clattering across the cobblestones. In one smooth motion, she stepped in and jabbed her elbow into his ribs, sending him crumpling to his knees, gasping for air.
Arthur raised an eyebrow."Impressive."
"They were going to ruin your fun, my lord," she said under her breath.
From the upper balconies, academy instructors and more students looked down, watching the scene with hushed awe. The Black Robe professors, cloaked in long ceremonial hoods, murmured among themselves.
Then, from the upper balcony overlooking the courtyard, a slow clap echoed across the silence.
"Well done," came a smooth, mocking voice. "A bum and a girl teaching manners to the Empire's future."
All heads turned.
A tall figure in a rich indigo robe, flanked by two armored servants, descended the steps slowly. He was elegant, with slick black hair and a silver-tipped cane. His voice reeked of poison wrapped in velvet.
"But tell me, commoner…" he said to Arthur, eyes sharp like a hawk. "Do you know where you stand?"
Arthur looked up at him."In a pit of snakes."
The man smiled."And yet you came barefoot."
"I came hunting," Arthur replied softly.
There was a moment of silence, like the sky inhaling before a storm.
"Very well then," said the noble. "Let's see how long you survive the venom."
Arthur turned to Aisha."I like him," he said casually. "We'll deal with him last."
And then he continued walking. As if none of it had happened.
Behind him, the murmurs of the courtyard turned into a frenzy. Who was this man? Where had he learned to move like that? Why was his presence more terrifying than General Sal's?
But no one—not even the highborns watching from the towers—guessed the truth.
That the man they had insulted was Arthur von Hurellious, the Archduke of the West, bearer of the Emperor's Black Sigil, commander of the Black Knights.
And he had just entered their Academy.
Not to study.
But to cleanse it.
The wide training grounds behind the Grand Academy trembled with energy as the final bell rang across the fields. Dozens of students in robes of violet, green, crimson, and gold gathered into formation under the watchful gaze of the academy instructors, their ceremonial staffs pulsing with soft light. Tension filled the air—not from nerves, but hunger. Hunger for glory, for validation, for the chance to prove themselves in blood and chaos. These were not ordinary children of the realm. They were the Empire's future generals, spymasters, and executioners. Each one a descendant of power.
A white-robed professor raised his hand. His voice rang out, calm and cruel."Now, gather here! All of you!"
Boots stamped, students gathered, murmurs silenced. The man's eyes gleamed like a blade drawn under moonlight."You're all going to the deep forests of Westeros. You will hunt White Walkers. You will fight. You will kill. You will learn to survive. The more you bring back, the higher your score. But know this—" he paused, gaze sweeping across the rows of arrogant faces. "Only one of you will return with honor. The rest… will simply return. Or not at all."
The air thickened with anticipation.
Runes beneath their feet began to glow—intricate spellwork etched into the stone, designed by ancient Archmages long since turned to dust.
One by one, students lit up with pale golden light.
"Remember," the professor added, "Out there, nothing binds you. Steal, deceive, destroy—do whatever you must to win."
Arthur stood at the edge of the formation, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. His commoner's cloak fluttered slightly as the magic surged. Beside him, Aisha waited silently, hand on the hilt of a dagger hidden beneath her sash.
Arthur leaned slightly and said, almost lazily,"Don't bother yourself with these dogs. Do whatever's needed."
Aisha's gaze flicked to him."Yes, sire."
In a flash of gold and white, they vanished—along with the others.
The Deep Forest of Westeros—an ancient, cursed place. Trees towered like the pillars of forgotten gods, gnarled and blackened. The snow fell like ash. The cold here was not natural; it gnawed at the soul. Fog twisted between trunks like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Arthur landed silently in a clearing, his boots barely disturbing the snow. His eyes flicked across the terrain. He could hear nothing but the soft crunch of snowfall and the eerie whisper of the wind. No animals. No birds.
Only death.
In the distance, a pale shape moved. Then another. Tall, gaunt, armored in frost. Glowing blue eyes—cold and merciless.
White Walkers.
Arthur drew no weapon at first. He walked calmly toward them. Let them come.
Meanwhile, across the forest, the other students had begun their descent into madness.
Groups broke apart. Alliances formed and shattered within minutes. Screams echoed between the trees as White Walkers fell—and so did students. Some fought with honor, others... did not.
A silver-haired boy, son of a Grand Duke from the East, impaled a fellow student through the back just as the poor fool was celebrating his kill. He pulled the blade out with a laugh and kicked the body over before looting his belt of mana crystals and enchanted scrolls.
"Weaklings deserve death," he muttered, wiping blood from his face. "And fools deserve to be robbed."
He turned, stepping over corpses of both White Walkers and classmates alike. His name was Leonhart Esterris, heir to House Esterris of the Eastern March. He had always believed himself destined for greatness. And now, he saw his destiny in one figure ahead.
He saw Arthur.
Moving like death incarnate through the snow, Arthur tore through the White Walkers with ease. His movements were clean, surgical. A dagger flashed—one neck sliced. A tree branch cracked—Arthur hurled it like a spear through the skull of another. A swarm of five came from the trees, and Arthur's cloak whirled as he stepped between them like a dancer in the wind. He caught one blade with his bare hand, snapping it, and drove it into the icy heart of its wielder.
He fought like a man who had seen true war. No hesitation. No mercy.
Leonhart approached slowly, his sword drawn, his eyes hungry. He knew the rumors—this nobody was dangerous. But Leonhart was born to command, born to kill, and born to take what he wanted.
He smiled as Arthur turned slightly, catching his approach.
"Apologies," Leonhart said, voice velvet-smooth. "But it's the rule of this forest: if you want to win, you must take everything from those who have it."
Arthur didn't answer. He just stared. That stare—silent and cold—made Leonhart's stomach tighten.
Still, he pressed on.
"You're impressive. Truly. But it's my right as a noble of Esterris to inherit the Empire's future. Not yours. I'll give you a choice—stand aside and give me your kills… or I'll take them after I carve out your spine."
Arthur blinked once.
"You talk too much."
Leonhart's smirk cracked.
He lunged.
Steel rang through the air. Snow kicked up as the two clashed. Leonhart was fast, trained by the finest duelists in the realm. His bladework was fluid, aggressive, and aristocratic. But Arthur fought like a shadow. Every movement was exact, every step a calculated death sentence.
Leonhart swung in a furious arc—Arthur ducked, shoulder-checked him into a tree, and kicked his legs from under him. Before Leonhart could rise, Arthur was on him, his dagger pressed against his neck.
"You're not ready," Arthur said calmly.
"Do it," Leonhart hissed. "Prove you're better. Kill me!"
Arthur leaned close."Death is a mercy you don't deserve."
He stood, turned his back, and walked away.
Leonhart lay in the snow, humiliated, furious, and terrified. The true weight of Arthur's presence settled on him like a storm.
Elsewhere, Aisha was a blur between trees. She struck quickly, efficiently, her movements always focused on support. She saved a girl from a frostbite wound, only for that girl to turn her blade on Aisha moments later. But Aisha was faster. The traitor now hung upside down in a snare, groaning in pain.
"Stupid," Aisha whispered, "You try to betray his shadow?"
More cries echoed in the distance. Fires flickered where enchanted scrolls had gone off. The forest had become a graveyard, not just for White Walkers, but for the dreams of Empire's finest children.
And somewhere above it all, on a high cliff beneath a ruined Weirwood tree, a figure watched through a crystal lens—one of the Academy's masked elders.
He whispered to another seated beside him,"That one… the black-cloaked boy. The fire behind those eyes…"
The other elder nodded."Yes. The others play games. But he comes to conquer."
And deep in the forest, Arthur stood at the edge of a blood-soaked clearing, gazing at the sigil he had carved into the bark of an ancient tree: a single black crown atop a burning sword.
Arthur moved through the frostbitten woods like a shadow among the dying stars. The cold had grown quiet—too quiet—as if the forest itself were holding its breath. Snow crunched under his boots in a muffled rhythm. He had long since left the other students behind. What they thought was a survival trial was, for him, something else entirely. A journey into places that hadn't seen the footfall of men for centuries.
Then, he felt it.
A gaze.
Not malice. Nothungryr. But watchfulness, old as the roots of the world.
An arrow flew through the air—sharp, silent, impossibly fast.
Arthur moved at the last second, pivoting aside. The arrow grazed his cloak and embedded into a tree behind him, still trembling from the force. It was no ordinary arrow—it was made from witherwood, its shaft bound in vines that glowed faint green. Living wood.
Before he could inspect it further, a deep roar erupted through the trees, followed by thunderous footfalls.
From between the trees emerged a beast of legend. Easily three times the size of a normal direwolf, its fur silver-grey like ancient mist, its fangs longer than swords. It was a King Direwolf—the old apex predator of the North, thought extinct even by the Children.
The beast lunged, snow and soil erupting beneath its weight.
Arthur stood still.
Just as its shadow enveloped him, he uttered a single command—in a tongue no man had spoken in millennia:
"Yn'vis Tolmenor—stand down."
The ancient language of the Children of the Forest, spoken with a perfect, reverberating accent. The direwolf halted mid-leap—its massive paws crashing just inches from Arthur's face. It landed, growled... and then whimpered, falling to its knees in submission, head bowed.
Arthur stepped forward, slowly, eyes calm.
"I know you're there," he said in the same tongue, voice cutting through the frost like the song. "I will not harm you. Come."
The silence broke with rustling branches as figures stepped from the trees.
Small, lithe beings—neither child nor adult—eyes large, glowing with the soft sheen of stars. Their skin shimmered like bark bathed in moonlight, and their hair flowed like roots in windless water. They held bows made from bone and staves from living willow.
The Children of the Forest.
They emerged cautiously, forming a semi-circle around Arthur, bows drawn. One, wearing a cloak of woven moss and feathers, stepped forward. Her face was ancient yet youthful, timeless, and knowing.
The wind whispered between the bark and bone of the forest, stirring the hollow trees like flutes carved by time. Eyes watched from every crevice, and the Children began to close the circle tighter around Arthur.
One of the elders, with hair like spider roots and eyes glowing like saplit moons, stepped forward.
"Velyssin na'ar telrien, sha'loth ven'dari.""How do you speak the tongue of the hidden? This gift is not meant for mortal breath."
Arthur stood tall, unshaken. He stepped forward and answered, his voice smooth, each word spoken with the accent of someone born among the branches:
"Esh'nara vel tolmari… Aen'velith na Yelenthra.""Because I was born not among men… but of Yelenthra."
Gasps echoed in the woods. Bows trembled.
"Yelenthra na? Ven'thil ashnar?!""Yelenthra? The Queen of Nine Roots?!"
"Saren tolmin dei… ven'thira shol.""She bore no child… not among the living."
Arthur looked up to the crimson-veined sky and spoke a line no outsider could ever know:
"Vash'ryl talmir en dol'mar, eyth nil'ven an torin… shal'kath.""In the Eighth Moon, beneath the Stone Binding, she sang this to me… mother's vow."
The winds hushed. The roots whispered.
Elder of the Grove (in Forest Tongue):"Vael'kha serin… da'ryn Yelenthra? Tyal oren shé?"("Impossible… child of Yelenthra? How can it be?")
Arthur (in Forest Tongue):"Da'ryn sha. I'val serin. Yelenthra sha-naiya.Sha 'vell durin. Kael Hurellious—Koronai Thorne—my father."("It is true. I am the child. Yelenthra is my mother. King Hurellious—of the Five Thrones—is my father.")
Younger Child (in Forest Tongue):"Na'khalin! Union breaks the Veil! Forbidden!"
Arthur (calmly, in Forest Tongue):"Veil broke when fire kissed the root. I carry both. Look…"
He raised his palm. A radiant light pulsed under his skin. Runes of ancient authority glowed gold beneath the surface.
Arthur (in Forest Tongue):"Sha'thor ehn… Verdant Flame. Blood of Grove and Throne."("This is the sign… of the Verdant Flame. Blood of the Forest and Throne.")
The elders gasped.
Elder (in Forest Tongue):"Vael'kin… Verdant-born… heir of root and ash…"
The Children dropped to one knee, some in reverence, others in trembling fear. The forest itself groaned softly, as if waking from an age-long slumber.
Arthur (in Forest Tongue):"Rethkha'val. Krenai'lor en sha'ar."("Rise. I claim what was mine.")
The Heartroot Tree pulsed like a heart in sync with his breath.
Daemon jolts upright in his carved obsidian chair, his breath fogging in the cold air of Dragonskeep's highest spire. The book in his hands crackles as if it resents being closed, but Daemon's heart is already racing ahead of it.
"My ancestor… was one of the Children of the Forest?" he mutters, half in awe, half in disbelief. "And this Authority... what is it talking about? What kind of power bends direwolves and makes the ancient ones kneel?"
His fingers tighten around the book. Below his chamber, Dragonskeep's storm-wracked towers echo with the distant screech of drakehawks and the heavy clang of gate chains.
Then—knocking. Urgent. The old wood vibrates.
"Sire!" a knight bursts in, soaked from the rain, breathless. "Forgive the intrusion—but we've received a report. It's him."
Daemon lifts his gaze slowly.
"The boy with the golden-red eyes. He was seen at the edge of the Ashgrove Province..."
"And?" Daemon's voice is sharp, commanding.
The knight swallows. "He killed two Grove Grandmasters. Slaughtered them like cattle. Witnesses said he moved like shadow and steel. After that—nothing. Vanished without a trace. Not even the Sentinels of Smoke could track him."
A hush follows. Daemon's jaw tightens. He walks toward the large circular window behind his desk. From this height, he sees the forests stretch into fog, the black rivers winding like serpents through the land.
"He's hiding in the deep woods…" Daemon murmurs. "Among the trees. No wonder we lost track."
"Send ravens to the Iron Marsh, tell them to seal the borders. Activate the Emerald Watchers. Double the bounty on the golden-eyed boy."
The knights bow and rush out.
Daemon remains still.
"Boy, I'll kill you for both humiliating me and coming into the castle." He drank from his wine glass, then, throwing it down, his eyes like a dragon's fury, still watching the sky outside.