Within the Skadi Spire, behind its layered walls, the gloom of its dark exterior gave way to a quiet elegance inside. Soft white light spilled from a chandelier, illuminating sapphire-crossed carpets, charred-brown brick floors, and steadfast walls of deep gray stone.
Up to the elegant beige wooden door, slowly swinging open.
A clang of steel rang out!
“Good morning, Your Highness,” the knight in chainmail armor bowed, hands resting upon the hilt of his sword at his waist.
“Good morning, Sir Edward,” Daemon inclined his head slightly.
The prince walked along the corridor, weaving through the chambers.
The grand library stretched before him, hundreds of books arranged meticulously, bathed in a warm, comforting light. It was the place where he and his brother had once whiled away the hours as children.
Yet his favorite book was the most tattered of them all, The Reign by Julian Norman, who lived until the thirty-fourth year after the Conquest. It chronicled the ways rulers maintained their power.
The Swordcraft Hall. Natural light poured through the tall windows, spilling across the corridor, a place he loved just as much. It was spacious enough for more than two to duel without obstruction.
The prince had been knighted at the age of just thirteen, the youngest in history, by Sir Arthur Ashbourne, the unrivaled swordsman in the kingdom.
Although Daemon lost the final duel to Sir Galhart, the entire kingdom had witnessed their prince’s remarkable talent firsthand, during the grand tournament held when the King of Blomburg himself paid a visit.
"The young prince wields his sword as if by magic."
The tapestry hall displayed carpets woven with tales of history.
A sword stood planted in the heart of the Redmane battlefield. Blood rain fell upon the Dawnspire. And beyond it all, the tableau of white rose petals drifting in the air, a young man and woman side by side beneath a thousand stars.
His grandfather used to tell him that King Wilhelm II had not ended the long, drawn-out war with sword or flame, but through negotiation and marriage. After he wed Princess Signe of Himmelstad, the two realms were united as one, enduring for all time.
A hidden passage, known only to him and his grandfather, lay concealed behind that tapestry.
The narrow corridor, barely wide enough for a single person, led to an aged wooden door. Daemon ascended the spiral staircase, winding ever upward until he stepped out onto the balcony of the towering spire.
A breeze drifted by… his ash blond hair swaying gently.
People whispered that… no rose ever bloomed at Blackthorn.
The grand garden stretched majestically, blue blooms edged in black fluttering softly, their vibrant green stems and leaves bringing the place to life. White lattice benches were scattered throughout, inviting one to sit and rest in quiet repose.
Petals drifted down, melting a sweet, delicate fragrance, gentle as a midnight drizzle…
From the Sky Garden… his gaze stretched toward the city of Aidengaard beneath the endless sky.
The metropolis stood elegant and vast. Streets of dark gray brick stretched like ribbons, while buildings in soft, muted hues lined the avenues. A cathedral and a spired clock tower pierced the sky in antique silver, and an emerald-blue river wound through the city, flowing like a vein of living blood.
A small coach made its way along the streets, crossing the Silver Lining Bridge.
The suspension span stretched like a charcoal-hued raincloud, its silver-edged rails glinting in the sunlight — a beacon of hope for the people since the city’s founding.
The prince slowed his breath just slightly…
“Good morning, Your Highness,” a soft, gentle voice rose gradually.
A young girl with shoulder-length blonde hair and sea-colored eyes bowed low.
“Good morning, Natalie,” Daemon replied, a faint smile touching his lips.
The moment the prince passed by,
the girl quickly turned away, her face flushing pink as she clutched her beige apron tightly.
The corridor remained decorated as before, yet everything had grown paler. The chandelier’s light softened to a warm yellow, and the deeper he walked, the dimmer the path became, until he could begin to see his own shadow.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the silence!
On either side of the path…
reliquaries and antique chests, adorned with gold and silver, stood in rows, holding sacred relics, precious gems, and important documents.
the swords of fallen knights, and the crowns of conquered lands.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” the knight said, bowing low, one hand resting on the longsword at his side.
“Good morning, Sir Cedric,” Daemon returned with a slight bow.
The sound of gauntlets striking the dark wooden door reverberated!
“Your Highness requests an audience, Your Majesty,”
“Send him in,” came the cold, even reply.
The knight opened the door. The prince stepped through, and it closed silently behind him.
The scent of old and new paper mingled in the air.
The room was lavish yet cramped, its walls lined with shelves overflowing with books. Maps of the kingdom were pinned with red and black markers, tangled threads of red tracing intricate routes. Piles of documents covered the floor. A large table held the map of the city of Syrin, a longsword resting across one corner. One hand gripped a quill, while a ruler slid back and forth across the parchment.
The prince drew a deep breath, gazing through the leaded glass window.
The shadow of Blackthorn Castle stretched long… draping over Aidengaard.
“I have returned from Syrin.”
Daemon set the crown down upon the table.
The clang of metal echoed through the room!
The king’s gaze remained unbroken, his fingertip tracing lines across the map with deliberate care.
The prince exhaled, setting down a hefty stack of documents.
“These are all the resources I require… by the end of this week.”
The king’s gaze swept over the papers, wordless.
“Almost nothing remains.”
“It will take a decade… to restore it all.”
Daemon lifted his gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding.
“My plan is proceeding well…”
“But what have we truly won, Wilhelm? Corpses?”
The young king remained silent for a moment.
“You should get used to it, Daemon.”
He met his brother’s eyes squarely, unrelenting.
“Because I… have to step over those corpses, climb onto that throne… every single day.”
The prince could not move. His body remained still, yet his heart pounded violently.
Mr. Romney laid the boy on the bed. The air in the room was thick and stale, as if it had been abandoned for years.
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Theo rushed to fling open every window, letting the cold wind pour in.
Medical instruments were neatly arranged, and the sink pressed against the wall. Across the room, a desk and bookshelves stood, separated by a faded curtain that looked ready to fall at any moment.
Mr. Romney checked the boy’s pulse at his wrist, shining the lamp at the head of the bed into his pupils.
Though his body bore scratches, there were no deep wounds.
The boy seemed only a few years older than Theo, yet his skin was pale, almost corpse-like.
“His pulse is still beating.”
Mr. Romney smiled at the little girl, though his voice carried a weight of concern.
“But… why?”
The child’s voice trembled with worry, her small hands gripping the edge of the bed tightly.
Mr. Romney lifted the boy’s shirt and flinched slightly.
Long claw marks ran across his skin, their edges dark red, with faint traces of blood seeping from them.
“Theo! Wound cleanser! Antiseptic! Red serum!”
Mr. Romney shouted.
Theo nodded and dashed out.
In an instant, he returned with the medicines, carrying a clean white linen cloth neatly rolled into a bundle.
They worked together to cleanse the wounds with antiseptic, the sharp scent rising to their noses.
Faint blood mixed with the solution as they carefully wrapped the injuries with linen cloth.
In the dim light, it glinted off the glass syringe.
The treatment proceeded quickly, yet the boy remained motionless, unconscious.
“Will he be alright?”
The little girl asked.
“It’s getting late. You should go rest first.”
“Come back to visit tomorrow, alright?”
Mr. Romney replied in a hoarse voice.
Anne forced a smile and nodded before walking away.
“What… what made these marks?”
Theo’s voice was anxious.
“I’ve seen these marks before… but never the creature itself.”
Mr. Romney was silent for a moment, then spoke softly.
“Coldfelid… slightly larger than a cat, with coal-colored fur.”
“…”
“And… will he survive?”
The boy asked, his voice trembling.
“Its claws carry a potent venom.”
“The antidote must be prepared from the plants in that valley,”
Mr. Romney said, watching the boy lying asleep.
“I’ll hurry there first thing tomorrow.”
“For now, I’ve given him a basic serum.”
“The rest… depends on him.”
Mr. Romney let out a sigh, heavy enough to seem to press down on the entire room.
“And… what plants do we need? Why not go get them now?” Theo asked eagerly.
“Trident leaves aren’t rare,” Mr. Romney said.
“But at night, that valley is far too dangerous. No one dares venture near that mist,”
he added, his voice hoarse, yet his eyes betrayed concern.
“But he looks… like he’s already dead!”
Theo shouted, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his skin.
“I’ve seen this before!”
“If we just stand here waiting—”
“Enough, Theo!” Mr. Romney snapped,
placing a hand gently on Theo’s shoulder before lowering his voice.
“We’ve done everything we could.”
Ginger leapt up to sit beside Theo, who was poring over his book with intense focus.
The boy’s hands trembled with urgency.
Deadly Antidote Herbs by Professor James Clark
Trident Leaf, page 51
Shaped like a three-pronged fork, sea-green in color, usually found along streams.
Used to prepare potent antidotes for the venoms of various creatures. It cannot be grown artificially.
The boy snapped shut the drab-covered book and tugged at the tattered one Ginger was sitting on.
“Sorry, Ginger.”
The cat rolled over with a soft thud, then shot him a sharp, scolding glance.
Traveler’s Journal by Marco De Sturfend
On the Coldfelid, page 60
I first encountered it on a freezing night, shrouded in mist along the mountainside. Its size was no greater than that of a wildcat, yet a single glance conveyed its peril.
The Coldfelid, a ravenous cat, is a small tiger-like creature with fur as soft and black as midnight. Its markings blur like drifting shadows, and its red eyes gleam in the dark. Its mouth opens to a terrifying width, its long fangs capable of piercing the hide of large prey.
Venom glands reside in its forepaws, delivering poison along the grooves of its claws when it strikes. Though diminutive, its cunning and deadly venom enable it to hunt creatures far larger than itself, including red deer, elk, and even bison.
Nocturnal by habit, it moves with almost spectral silence. The people of the valley caution against underestimating its size and warn never to tread into its domain.
Yet whispers persist… that some sorcerers have succeeded in taming it.
The boy sprang to his feet, refilled the Storm Lantern with oil, and pumped the bellows vigorously.
He drew a deep breath, his eyes hard and resolute.
“Ginger, I’ll be back soon!”
The dim orange glow of the lantern cut through the darkness. Near the lake, no one dared to tread. The wind whistled, sometimes shrill, sometimes soft, and the eerie stillness made him shiver.
Thick mist settled, and Theo swallowed hard before stepping into the fog…
A towering hill, blanketed with trees and vibrant green grass. The cicadas buzzed loudly, and the scent of dew drifted to his nose.
Though his legs trembled, the boy climbed steadily, one step at a time.
The leaves and blades of grass shifted from bright green to a cascade of red.
His hand holding the lantern shook, and his eyes widened as he glanced around in fear.
Blood-red leaves fell along the path…
Before long, the boy reached the top of the hill.
Theo saw a stream stretching as far as the eye could see.
A narrow path led him onward, while the rest of the landscape glowed bright red, like a sea of blood.
He hesitated for a long moment…
The memory returned once more.
The girl’s screams pierced the air as she clutched her mother’s lifeless body.
The boy lay motionless, pale as a corpse.
Theo gritted his teeth and stepped down into the valley.
The air was icy, and the wind brushed against his skin.
He feared that the tall grass might be stained with blood.
He caught sight of a bird skirting along.
It let out a cry, a sound eerily like a baby!
Theo’s hair stood on end. He drew a deep breath,
trying to steady himself and resist the urge to run.
It would be good if you were here, Ginger.
Theo quickened his pace…
Trees of all sizes lined the path.
The scent of damp earth rose to his nose, and he could hear a stream flowing gently not far away.
The boy felt a flicker of hope.
He came upon a massive tree, leaning strangely, its blood-red leaves swaying in the wind.
Before him stretched a small stream,
its sound more melodious than any song.
The boy drew closer, and at last, he found it—
leaves shaped like a three-pronged fork, sea-green in color.
Theo plucked as many as he could… and stuffed them into his bag.
Suddenly,
he heard… faint footsteps.
The boy turned around slowly.
Red eyes, ash-colored fur, teeth bared.
His heart nearly stopped. He crouched, raising his arms in defense.
It leapt at him.
WHOOSH! Blood spattered with a scream.
An arrow had struck its hind leg. The wild cat yelped and bolted away.
“Are you all right?”
A child’s voice?
Theo looked up.
A boy with light brown hair and hazel eyes held a longbow.
“I’m fine,” Theo said, his voice trembling.
“You need to get out of here!”
He spoke, pointing back toward the path Theo had come from.
“Climb back up the hill, that way—”
“Kvicha! Let’s go! We have to keep after it!”
A shout came from a tall, shadowy figure.
“I’m going. Stay safe,” he called, before walking away.
Theo shot to his feet, his heart pounding wildly.
The boy sped up, feeling reassured with his bag full of Trident leaves.
The wind blew from behind, as if escorting him back.
The hill was not far ahead.
The sound of tearing flesh!
Theo whipped around.
A young elk lay dead, a dark shadow hunched over it.
Something was feeding on the carcass.
The lantern’s light flickered across it.
Its form resembled a large bird, slender, ruffled, and somber-feathered, with green eyes reflecting the glow
It lifted its head…
It had seen him!
The boy pressed himself against a tree, panic-stricken.
He grabbed the invisibility potion and drank it in one gulp, his heart racing.
The lantern’s glow slowly faded.
It seemed to move closer… tilting its head curiously as it peered at him,
before turning back to continue tearing into the carcass.
Theo ran, his stomach tight with tension, his body trembling.
The moonlight guided him through the darkness.
In an instant, a spring wind rushed past, carrying a fresh, rain-like fragrance.
He sensed something… shimmering amidst the thick, heavy mist.
Theo stood frozen, glancing to his side.
A pure-white stag, its ivory antlers sprawling, muscular and strong, walked beside him.
Each step it took was graceful, as if time itself had slowed to a halt.
Theo could barely breathe, staring unblinkingly into the stag’s amber eyes.
All he could hear… was the beating of his own heart.
When he came to, the trees and grass around him had turned vibrant green.
Abundance seemed to rain down… like a scene from a dream.
