Serain and his retinue moved steadily toward the capital of Viscol — Trostal. Even before they crossed the border, a mounted Viscol escort had joined them and had not left their side since. In Viscol, order was cherished: a foreigner might set foot on their soil, but never unnoticed. King Darynus of House Moveria knew of Serain’s diplomatic mission before Serain had even left the borders of Ceredan. The scouts worked silently and flawlessly; in this kingdom, news grew old faster than bread left on a table.

  Trostal had once been the capital of a northern empire. After the empire’s collapse, its status had formally changed — in practice, it had not. The city remained wealthy, expansive, and stubborn in its prosperity. Fertile lands, full granaries, mines, a temperate climate, and a government that knew how to count as well as fight — all this kept Viscol from decline. The towers of Trostal rose high above the plains, and the diplomatic party from Ceredan saw them long before the city walls came into view.

  The gates stood open. No ceremonial arches, no crowds, no banners. Either deliberate restraint — or a subtle reminder: you are guests, nothing more.

  The king received them in the temple — a place where stone remembered more than men. Silence ruled inside, broken only by the measured steps of guards. Upon a raised platform beneath a carved vault sat Darynus. Bright green garments with gold inlays emphasized his status and composure. He did not look like a man in haste or doubt. He looked like a man who already knew everything.

  To his right stood his daughter, Miravelis. Fair hair fell over her shoulders; her face was nearly flawless, but her gaze attentive, cool. Beauty trained to be held like a weapon.

  Closer to the entrance, a few steps ahead, stood the king’s son, Severin. He was to greet the guests first. Young, yet already firm in posture; in his eyes was not youthful anxiety but calculation. He studied each of them as if arranging pieces on a board.

  Only Serain, Nikola, and Syra were admitted into the hall — the latter as a personal guard. The rest of the retinue remained beyond the doors. No unnecessary witnesses. No unnecessary noise.

  Severin stepped forward.

  — Welcome to Trostal. My father values guests who arrive on time.

  Serain inclined his head slightly.

  — And I value open gates. That is a good sign.

  — The gates are open to those we expect, — Severin replied calmly. — And closed to those who come uninvited.

  Nikola felt the air in the hall grow heavier. Syra’s gaze did not leave the guards standing along the columns.

  King Darynus raised a hand, ending the exchange of courtesies.

  Severin stepped forward again, his voice even, sharpened to formality:

  — Trostal sincerely welcomes King Serain and all guests from the east.

  Serain answered with a brief nod — just enough to pass for courtesy, not submission. Severin withdrew without emotion, returning to his place near the throne.

  Then Darynus rose. He neither hurried nor hesitated — he simply stood, like a man accustomed to others waiting for this precise moment. He approached Serain. Though they were nearly the same age, the difference was striking: Darynus looked younger. Leaner, not a strand of gray, lighter skin, carefully arranged hair. Nothing accidental in his appearance. Not a single wrinkle that could not be explained by control.

  — I see you prepared well for this meeting, — Serain said, a faint edge of sarcasm slipping into his voice.

  — Forgive me, King Serain, — Darynus answered evenly. — We have recently reduced celebrations and expenditures. I trust you will not take this as discourtesy.

  He paused, his gaze passing over Nikola and Syra, weighing even their silence.

  — I understand you may wish to rest after the journey. I will not detain you. We shall meet tomorrow.

  The guards were already moving forward — precise and silent — ready to escort the guests out. Darynus turned, preparing to leave the temple.

  The tension in the hall thickened. Not because of raised voices — but because there were none.

  This was not rudeness.

  It was a demonstration.

  Miravelis stepped forward quickly, as if trying to seal the crack that had just split the air.

  — We are pleased to welcome all our guests, — she said gently. — Chambers have been prepared for you. I hope they will prove worthy of your status.

  Her gaze flickered to her father, then back to Serain. She was trying to steady scales that had already begun to tilt.

  Darynus did not stop.

  — King Darynus, — Serain’s voice sounded calmly behind him, clear and deliberate, — remind me, if you would: do you still hold power in your hands as firmly as before? Are your decisions as confident and measured as they once were?

  The footsteps ceased. Even the guards froze.

  Darynus paused. Miravelis looked at him tensely — in her eyes flashed the hope for an answer that might smooth everything over.

  He did not turn.

  — You need not doubt it, — he replied evenly.

  And he walked on, leaving the words hanging in the cold air of the temple — heavier than any insult.

  Within minutes, the guests were led through the inner courtyard to their assigned chambers. Stone galleries echoed with the measured steps of guards, torches casting long shadows along the walls. Serain was accompanied by Miravelis — no retinue, no display of grandeur, only herself.

  At the entrance, she stopped. For a brief moment, her official mask cracked.

  — I apologize for my father, — she said quietly. — He… has not been feeling well. But that does not mean you are unwelcome here. I hope that in time he will recover, that his thoughts will grow clearer again. I will remind him of courtesy.

  Her gaze lingered on Serain longer than etiquette allowed. As if she were testing whether he understood more than she had said.

  — Thank you, Miravelis, — Serain replied calmly. — We will pray for his recovery.

  She gave a faint nod, turned, and walked down the corridor without allowing herself to look back.

  When the doors closed, silence settled in the chambers. Syra immediately checked the windows and inner passages before permitting herself to ease. Nikola removed his gloves and shook his head.

  — What kind of illness clouds a man’s thoughts? — he asked quietly. — He didn’t look sick.

  Serain stepped to the narrow window overlooking the night of Trostal. The towers loomed dark against the sky, like inked silhouettes.

  — The illness is called proximity to the fifth Suggestor, — he answered evenly. — It seems Darynus is no longer the one who rules here.

  Nikola stilled.

  — You think—

  — I do not think. I see. Gannud has almost completely bent him to his will.

  The room felt colder.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Far East. Atrion and Velm were approaching the eastern forests. The road led them through Hariv, where they stopped only for the night. The city greeted them with warm dust, the smell of fish, and damp timber from the docks. People still whispered about movement in the woods, yet no one looked in that direction for long. There was no time — at dawn, they set out for the meeting place.

  They turned sharply off the main road, as if unwilling to leave a trace. Ahead, dense trees stood like a wall, their crowns interwoven so tightly that the forest’s heart vanished into a mass of dark green. Light slid over the treetops and died before reaching the ground. A narrow path led into the thicket — nearly abandoned, yet the earth was trampled, branches recently broken. Someone used it. Carefully. Regularly.

  Warning signs hung at the entrance: faded symbols carved into planks, charred edges, red threads stretched between trunks. To outsiders, it would look like superstition. To those who knew — a boundary not crossed twice.

  Atrion stopped beside one of the trees. The board was nailed crookedly, as if attached in haste, yet the carving remained sharp. He traced the grooves with his fingers, brushing away a thin layer of damp.

  — Mind Subjugator, — he read aloud.

  The words did not sound like legend. They sounded likefactst.

  Atrion allowed himself a faint smile.

  — A clear warning.

  Velm replied quietly, without looking at the sign.

  — Yes. From here, on foot. The horses will panic.

  They dismounted and tied the animals farther from the forest’s edge. The horses snorted and stamped, trying to turn back toward the road.

  Atrion studied the path for a long moment.

  — It isn’t abandoned. Still in use?

  — Yes, — Velm answered. — A village lives on the other side. And the people do not wish to leave.

  — Does he keep them by force?

  Velm’s smile was faint.

  — No. They worship him. Bring offerings. And in return, they receive his… rewards.

  The silence between them thickened. Somewhere deeper within, a branch snapped — though the wind did not stir the leaves.

  Velm spoke first.

  — Do you remember the last time you saw him?

  Atrion kept his eyes on the darkness ahead.

  — I remember it for life. It’s been more than ten years. But it feels like yesterday.

  — Most who have seen him remember nothing at all, — Velm said quietly. — Nothing. So you may consider yourself fortunate.

  — And you?

  Velm gave a short nod.

  — Because of him, I once met Rianes. And later Skeld… and Syra.

  He unconsciously turned the ring on his finger. The metal caught a faint glint in the half-light.

  — His reward? — Atrion asked.

  — Payment for work completed.

  They stepped close to the trees. The air grew wetter, heavier, as if the forest breathed slowly and deeply.

  Velm’s voice lowered, but remained firm.

  — Remember. Do not fall behind. Do not argue. Do not resist.

  He took out a small vial. The liquid inside was dark, with a sharp metallic scent. They drank in turn. The taste was bitter, cold — like a swallow of meltwater drawn from an old well.

  Then they stepped forward — and the forest accepted them without a sound.

  Sunlight barely reached here. The trees were enormous, ancient, their roots intertwined like bones beneath the earth’s skin. The air was damp and heavy; mist wrapped around the trunks and slowly drifted downward, swallowing space.

  At first, they followed the path, then Velm turned aside, where it no longer existed. The mist thickened, yet felt strangely hollow — as if sound had been drained from it. The forest’s edge was long gone from sight, and even their own footsteps were muffled. Somewhere far away, a dull breath of wind moved — steady, without direction.

  The way was marked: colored cords hung from trees — blue, yellow, dark red. They did not flutter, though the air moved. Velm passed from one to the next without hesitation, as if reading an invisible map.

  After half an hour, they reached a small clearing.

  At its center stood a stone, rough, split by a crack down the middle.

  Around it lay children’s toys, clay bowls, beads, and polished river stones. Some were new. Some were worn thin to fabric.

  — Ah. The offerings, — Atrion said.

  He stopped beside a doll, crouched, and picked it up. The fabric was clean, the eyes neatly embroidered.

  — He has decent taste.

  Velm answered dryly:

  — You’ll have time to examine everything. We’ll be waiting for hours.

  — Good. Time to eat.

  Atrion slid his bag from his shoulder and bent to reach inside — when he noticed the mist thicken. Not gradually. Instantly. As if someone had slammed a lid down over the clearing.

  Velm stiffened.

  — What is this? He never—

  A sharp, piercing sound tore through the air. Not a scream. Not wind. Something deeper — something that made the ears ring and the skull vibrate. Atrion clutched his head and lowered it, struggling to keep his balance. Wind struck suddenly, lifting dust and leaves that should have lain wet upon the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Seconds later, shielding his face with his arm, he raised his head — and the forest was gone.

  He stood at the edge of a cliff. The stone beneath his boots was cold and slick. Atrion looked down — and saw no ground. Only a white abyss swirling below, devouring light.

  He jerked back instinctively — and hit solid rock with his back. There was nowhere to retreat. The ledge was no wider than two meters; behind him, bare stone. Before him, a chasm swallowed by a raging blizzard.

  A freezing, cutting wind mixed with wet snow lashed his face, seeped through his clothes, and bit into his skin. Heavy clouds raced across the sky, blotting out the sun.

  The world narrowed to the rock beneath his feet — and the white void ahead.

  He turned — and saw Velm lying against the rock as if nailed to it. He struggled to rise, shoulders straining, fingers clawing at stone, but they would not obey. His lips moved — he was shouting something to Atrion — yet the wind tore the words apart before they could reach him.

  The blizzard before them suddenly tightened into a violent spiral. Snow and dust gathered into a dense vortex — and within it, suspended in midair, Nektokaris emerged.

  He was not human. Two long, bladed limbs in place of arms, curved like sickles. Upon his head pulsed several blue eyes, glowing from within with a cold inner light. His maw was wide, stretched thin, lined with countless narrow, nearly translucent teeth. Below the torso, his form dissolved into twin whirlwinds of dust that held him aloft, as if the air itself were his body.

  He hovered without touching the rock.

  His voice was low and cutting. It came from everywhere at once — before them, behind them, from the sky, from beneath the stone. As if space itself were speaking.

  — Velm. Do you remember the rules? Do you remember what we agreed upon?

  A pause. Only the wind.

  — You said: only those who live or have lived in that village may see me twice. You lived there. Rianes lived there. But he did not.

  A slight shift in the swirling air.

  — And I have already been seen by him once.

  The voice dropped lower.

  — Then tell me… why do I see him a second time?

  Velm forced his head upward.

  — Because—

  — Silence, — Nektokaris snapped sharply. — I have not finished my question.

  Atrion clenched his teeth.

  — You can try asking me. Not him.

  The blue eyes turned toward him at once. In the same instant, Atrion dropped to his knees, as if crushed by an invisible weight. His muscles failed. The air was forced from his lungs. He could not move — yet through the storm he whispered:

  — My people will find you. If necessary, they will slaughter every villager in the surrounding settlements. And your old, withered physical body will most likely end up among those they feed to the dogs. You will have nowhere left to hide.

  Nektokaris laughed. The sound had no source. It rolled across the sky, struck the cliffs, echoed back — as if the abyss itself were laughing.

  — But that will not help you.

  He drifted closer. The blue light of his eyes fell across Atrion’s face. The cold deepened.

  — Enough! — Velm’s voice cut through the storm. — You are no longer the only one who does not need a host. We have seen it. And you will see him soon enough. But together, we can stop him.

  Nektokaris flung Atrion aside like a rag doll and turned toward Velm.

  — Who is he? From where?

  A pause. The blue eyes narrowed.

  — And why is it hhewho stands with you this time?

  Atrion pushed himself upright against the rock. The blizzard still lashed at him, but he was standing now.

  — Because Rianes is gone.

  Nektokaris recoiled in the air. The spirals of snow around him faltered, loosening for a heartbeat before tightening again. When he spoke, the voice was no longer everywhere at once. It came from one direction. Lower.

  — Rianes…

  The name did not echo. It lingered.

  — He was… necessary.

  A brief pause. The blue light within his eyes dimmed, just slightly.

  — He understood the rules.

  Silence pressed in again, heavier than before. Then the wind returned.

  — What do you want?

  His voice had changed. Less rage. More cold curiosity.

  Velm answered steadily:

  — We need eyes in the Dark Forest. We must find a path through the Maw and study it. Learn who that Suggestor is. And who leads the Rejected?

  The wind died as abruptly as it had risen. Snow drifted down gently, no longer striking their faces.

  And the world around them began to clear.

  Atrion looked down — and held his breath.

  They stood higher than anything in this world. Beneath them stretched forests, mountains, lakes, and cities. The continent lay open like a map — but from a height no one had ever seen. Rivers were thin silver threads. Cities' dark stains.Lakes' cold mirrors.

  The world looked small.

  And defenseless.

  — The forest is my eyes, — Nektokaris said. — But by the lake, the forest breaks. If I am to see, both shores must be bound by it.

  Atrion snapped back:

  — By forest? That would take twenty years. We need another path. We cannot wait.

  — Yes. Twenty years is long. But there is no other way.

  Atrion flared.

  — Then release us. We’ve wasted enough time. — He turned sharply. — Velm, why are you silent?

  The blue eyes flashed again.

  — Because he knows you do not have to wait. But he does not know whether he should risk the one he has sworn to always protect.

  The silence cut sharply.

  Atrion’s voice lowered.

  — Velm?

  Velm did not look at him.

  — If she agrees… will you keep your word?

  — I will, — Nektokaris replied. — But will Atrion let you live after that?

  Atrion did not answer at once. His startled gaze shifted slowly to Velm.

  Velm kept his eyes lowered.

  The cliff beneath their feet no longer seemed the greatest threat.

  — Agreed, — Nektokaris added, and there was something like pleasure in his voice. — We will meet beyond the forest.

  He laughed — short, muffled — and dissolved into the air.

  The piercing sound struck their ears again. They clutched their heads, shut their eyes. When the noise snapped off, they opened them.

  Forest. Clearing. Stone. The toys lay where they had been, as if nothing had happened. The mist had thinned. Birds cried somewhere high above.

  The world had returned.

  But something had not returned with it.

  Atrion stood still for several seconds, as if testing whether the ground beneath his feet was real. Then he looked at Velm.

  Velm was already sitting against the stone, staring somewhere past him. Not into his eyes.

  — We go to Hariv, — Atrion said evenly. — You’ll tell me everything on the way.

  Velm did not answer at once. He rose slowly, brushed dust from his sleeve, shifted the small mace closer to his palm — a habitual, almost mechanical gesture.

  — Yes, — he said at last.

  They walked back the same way. The colored cords now looked faded.

  And neither of them spoke.