The feast had begun long before sunset.
The sea roared beyond the stained-glass windows of the banquet hall, but inside it was warm and stifling. The walls breathed fire, wine flowed like blood in wartime, and from the high ceiling hung laughter, the squeak of flutes, and the clink of silver goblets. Everything was lavish, as if the god of excess himself were celebrating a birthday.
Nathan Eldrit sat at the farthest table, in the shadows where dampness dripped from the ceiling. No one had called him. No one noticed him. Thank the gods for that. He watched. And listened.
— They say his voice hasn't even cracked, and already he's issuing decrees.
— Quiet, quiet...
— I am quiet. It's just funny. Like a scarecrow sitting on the throne.
The hall buzzed with talk — about the arcana of power, about the boy king, about the upcoming council, about which ass to kiss to keep your lands and title.
Nathan rolled his eyes. The whole hall buzzed like a hive. He counted: twenty-nine nobles, four great families, fifteen envoys from across the sea, and more than forty others who simply came to sniff at greatness.
The royal house of Lorel — to which the new boy king now belonged — had long since burned itself out. The last heirs had dropped dead one by one, as if the plague had whispered in their ears. Only Herman was left — and became king not by strength, but because there was no one else.
— What a farce, Nathan thought, taking a sip of expensive wine. But hey — happy birthday to me.
He wasn't exactly offended. It was just funny. Along the long tables, piled with roast pheasant, bear meat, and golden pies, there wasn't a single dish in his honor. Not a word, not a toast. Just the slow-dying sunset drifting across the black sea outside the windows. Even that looked bored.
He sat on a roughly carved blackwood chair, tucked under an arched doorway — as if the architecture itself had made a place for outcasts and the forgotten.
— Master Nathan, came a voice — an old servant had approached. — Shall I bring you—
— Bring whatever you want — as long as you're gone after, he snapped, not even looking up.
The servant nodded and vanished in silence, as did everyone who crossed paths with young Eldrit. He wasn't just the disgrace of the family — he was the festering wound no one dared to lance. Even his stepmother, Baroness Illeria, preferred to pretend he was invisible whenever they met.
The feast was held on the shore, at the ancient castle of Vir'Amir — a stronghold once owned by the house of Lorel.
It stood at the edge of the Dawn Coast, one of the Three Great Kingdoms, where power was shared among four noble houses. The central lands belonged to the Council, the east had been empty since the Water War, and the south was given to the seafaring clans...
Once, legendary admirals had marched to war from this very hall. Now their descendants feasted on the scraps of old glory. The great houses of the Dawn Coast — the Fenrirs, the Gravewoods, the Eldrits — had all gathered to celebrate the coronation of Herman Lorel. A boy king with a marble face and eyes that didn't even know fear.
— He's too quiet, said Countess Raven Gravewood, seated among her peers. — Like someone grown-up died in him a long time ago.
— Poor boy, it's no wonder, her brother Lord Cavell replied, raising his cup. — He was given a crown, not a childhood. No surprise he sees right through people.
Nathan listened with half an ear. Nonsense. These grown-ups sounded like flutes — shrill, cracked, and stupid. He rolled his eyes again and pulled an old, worn book from under his cloak. Sealed Magic of the Drowned Waters. A rare find. Half-forbidden filth. His father would've slapped him for it, and his stepmother — poisoned him.
He wasn't even reading. Just held it on his knees. Tactile comfort. As if the feel of knowledge in his hands could keep him from drowning — in boredom, in rage, or in emptiness.
The favorite. His brother. His elder. The real one. The only one who didn't bore him to death — who taught him to fence, who hid books for him, who came looking when he ran away from the estate. The one who fell from the tower last week and died on the rocks. The family called it an accident. Nathan called it bullshit.
He hadn't cried. Hadn't screamed. Hadn't thrown a fit. He just... didn't understand. Still didn't. Why?
—Nathan! someone called.
He looked up. The smile — slippery as a snake. His stepmother. Dressed in silver like a statue. Rubies at her neck. Wine on her lips. A goblet held between two fingers like it might stain her. She came closer, bent like a poisonous flower, and used the tip of her nail to fix a fold on her dress before she spoke.
— You frown too much. Even on your special day.
— Oh, so it is my day? I thought they just let me be here out of pity.
She didn't appreciate that. She hissed through her teeth:
— You were raised poorly. Like a monkey that never learned its limits.
— But one that knows the taste of wine and lies. Want a sip?
She twisted her lips in disgust and walked away without another word — like a cold wave receding from shore. Nathan had just started to enjoy being alone when the tide rolled back in.
— Trying to read with all these flutes squealing?
Talissa dropped into the seat beside him — a girl from House Fenrir. Two years older, and almost as skilled in sarcasm as he was.
— Piss off. Don't waste my time, Nathan replied.
— Why is our dear Nathan so grumpy today? Something special going on?
He didn't even glance at her. She smirked, clearly bored, tossed a grape into her mouth, and then said:
— Sometimes you remind me of my dog. Except he bites with more charm.
And with that, she left — not waiting for a response.
The feast went on.
Flutes shrieked.
Words wore masks.
Everyone at the table was hiding something.
The great families glanced at each other like wolves forced to dine at the same table. Gravewoods — as arrogant as towers. Fenrirs — hounds in human skin. Lorels — shadows of kings long dead. And the Eldrits — his family — ashes wrapped in velvet.
He was tired.
Through the stained glass, he looked out at the sea.
It was darkening.
The waves swallowed the last of the light.
Somewhere far off, a gull cried — like it knew something.
— Lords and ladies, came the sudden voice of the herald. His Highness would like to speak.
Herman stood up. The crown on his head looked more like an iron band than a symbol of rule. His hands trembled.
He wasn't a ruler.
He was a child.
— I... he began.
But no one listened.
Because the hall had fallen silent.
Utterly, unnaturally silent.
As if someone had ripped the sound out of the world.
The music stopped.
The guests froze.
Someone dropped a goblet — it shattered, but the noise felt distant, like it broke in another room.
Then the light trembled.
Not the candlelight — those flames burned steady.
The light itself.
As if someone had brushed a hand across the sky and smeared the sunset away.
A trembling hum rolled through the hall. Even the flutists faltered mid-note.
Nathan stood up. He didn't remember deciding to — he was just suddenly on his feet.
The crowd stood frozen.
Even the drunkest nobles stopped their laughter.
Then — darkness.
The entire hall plunged into it, pierced only by a single shaft of moonlight.
And that moonlight pointed out to sea.
There, beyond the castle walls, in the ocean where once there was only horizon — something appeared.
A dark shape.
Like a shadow.
A stain on the eye of the world.
An island.
It was moving.
Or were the waves moving around it?
No one could tell.
Someone whispered:
— He's back.
The Dark Island.
A myth.
A nightmare.
A place erased from maps, but not from memory.
Out there — artifacts.
Out there — answers.
But every answer came with death.
And then — the light returned.
The music resumed, as if nothing had happened.
But Nathan, like everyone else, was still standing. Still staring.
He didn't know why, but for the first time in a long, goddamn, unbearable while — he felt something real.
A cold that crawled into his bones.
And a strange, burning sensation...
That this was the beginning.
Of something very, very wrong.