—Where Names Meant Nothing, and One Meant Everything—
The village of Erl'twig was less a place than a question—a quiet, stuttering hesitation on the map where gods and mortals both seemed reluctant to linger. Its crooked paths wound like veins through a forest older than memory, stitched by gnarled roots and breathless mist. Here, the air held silence not as absence, but as worship.
Here, something watched.
It was dawn when the strange procession arrived, but the sun barely breached the canopy. Light filtered down as if frightened to touch the earth. The figures came from the treeline with regal poise, yet no herald. No banners. No fanfare but the quiet folding of wind.
Six travelers emerged from the wood, cloaked in poise and silence. Their steps left no mark in the dew. The birds quieted. The wind stilled. No dust on their cloaks. As though the forest had bent aside for them.
And it had.
Whispers preceded them like heralds. A boy had glimpsed a man with sun-gold hair who cast no shadow. A woman swore she saw a veiled priestess glide across the river without disturbing its surface. A bard's song echoed from the woods hours before the bard arrived.
The trees themselves seemed to lean away, as if in reverence—or dread.
Lady Arkeia, a daughter of Mar'aya's holy order—chosen in fire and light—stood in their path. A divine stillness radiated from her, as if her presence dared the world to sin. Her radiant armor hummed with soft resonance. The light around her moved with divine intelligence, haloing her form as though resisting the encroaching unknown.
And still, it crept forward.
She raised her hand.
"State your names," she commanded, "and answer plainly—do you serve the one called the Promised One?"
The strangers stopped.
Time lingered between breaths.
At their head stood a golden man—impossibly handsome, cloaked in a fine traveler's robe, his face ageless and framed by sun-lit hair. His smile could calm storms or seduce serpents. His presence felt blessed… and entirely wrong.
He bowed, perfectly.
"We are of House Rex. At least my brother and I are—our companions share our nobility by proxy. Simple travelers, seekers, perhaps a touch theatrical. My companions and I are—let's say—on pilgrimage."
The name hit Arkeia like a hot nail to the ribs.
Rex.
The name echoed through the iron chambers of her memory. Her father, bleeding in chains. Her mother, kneeling before foreign banners. A childhood spent beneath the heel of a forgotten noble house that ruled with silken cruelties and blade-laced decrees. She remembered the hunger. The public floggings. The silence.
The name her grandmother had whispered with bitterness and warning:
They were a decaying family once, child. But they made abominations and monsters. And the worst of them was rarely seen—only born. A boy—who vanished. I remember gazing upon him once as a young girl—he was beautiful… and wrong.
Arkeia's vision burned—her memories ached. Her goddess whispered behind her eyes. Her hand went to her blade.
But her resolve was not untouched. A quiet voice flickered in her thoughts—not her own, nor wholly divine. The voice said nothing clear, only murmured in layers, as though reality had begun to echo.
The golden one—the speaker—was cloaked in humble finery. Too modest for royalty, too neat for pilgrims. His face bore no mark of divinity, yet the wind avoided his hair, and the light refused to glare upon him. His robe hung too precisely—as though concealing something vast and folded.
Her instincts turned traitor.
Something in her, beneath even faith, wanted to kneel.
Something is trying to rewrite my perception, she thought.
Her gaze swept over the group.
Aethon Rex, raven-haired, smirking. He carried the kind of beauty that crept like mold in temple corners—refined, but rotting. His eyes lingered too long. His grin spoke in riddles. Shadows flickered behind him as if drunk on his wake.
Galeel, tall and grave, with ashen wings folded tight. He bore a sleeping girl—Elissa—in his arms like a reliquary lost to time. There was reverence in his hold, but also sorrow. His every step was that of one who had once been divine, now punished into patience.
Elissa stirred faintly in his arms. Her lips parted in sleep.
And spoke.
"It's not a dream if the forest hears it too."
The sentence came out sideways, as if the words had waited lifetimes to escape. Then she fell silent again. Her breath shallow. Her skin not cold, not warm—but uncertain.
Vharn, the bard, whose smile was both unhinged and musical. His eyes danced like wet opals—too many colors in too little space. A soft hum, ancient and maddened, trembled from his lips as if he conversed with something behind the trees.
A moth landed on his cheek. He kissed it.
And Caelinda, the veiled woman, who stood still as a statue carved from dream. Her silence sang louder than the others' words. Though the veil concealed her face, the edges of reality itself seemed to ripple around her form. The shrine's memory still clung to her like dew to a corpse.
Behind her, one of the nearby cats tilted its head, though no one had seen it arrive. Its fur shimmered like oil on glass. It purred, though no sound emerged. Then it vanished—without stepping—folding out of sight like a corner of paper turned inward.
They all appeared mortal… but to Arkeia's blessed sight, they shimmered—not illusions, not glamours, but distortions of consensus. Their forms moved correctly but cast wrong shadows. They breathed, but not always in rhythm with the world.
She turned sharply to Aethon.
"You. I've seen your type. You reek of hidden knives and priest's blood. The kind who drinks prophecy like wine and strangles nations with poetry. What are you hiding, snake? Speak truth—what power trails you?"
Aethon clutched his chest in mock agony, feigning heartbreak.
"Lady Arkeia, you wound me. I'm but a humble twin of nobility, exiled from love, burdened only with charm and trauma. Surely you don't suspect me?"
"I do," she said flatly.
Aethon sighed theatrically.
"Me? I'm but a mere noble. A tourist, if I'm honest. This whole continent is just so… rustic."
His smile widened.
"And terribly charming."
"You mock this land with every breath," Arkeia replied coldly. "I can see the predator behind your eyes."
"Oh no," he said with a chuckle, "you're thinking of my brother."
He smiled wider. Arkeia stepped forward.
Before she could speak, the golden man interjected, with a smile like a sunrise over a graveyard.
"Please, forgive Aethon. He was raised among bards and beasts. We're just noble sons on holiday. My brother is incorrigible, but harmless. No destinies. No prophecies. Only mud, maps, and mediocre food."
"Holiday?" Arkeia said.
Her suspicion faltered—not vanished, but split.
Was Aethon the Promised One? Or was he merely the jester to a deeper king?
"Yes. I assure you—just simple soul-searching. Nature. Peasant bread. Good times."
"Do you mock me?" Arkeia's jaw tightened.
He smiled again. It was worse than blasphemy—it was amusement.
"Me? Never. I only admire your suspicion—it's quite flattering, you must admit. Such a lovely foreplay."
Her glare moved from brother to brother, but uncertainty crept in. The way Aethon feigned innocence so well… and Balfazar, with his calm, his charm…
She couldn't tell which mask hid the serpent.
A murmur ran through the nearby villagers. A small crowd had gathered. One of them gasped—an old woman pointing with a trembling hand.
"That's Caelinda… the priestess. From our shrine!"
Eyes widened. The whispers grew louder. A ripple of recognition passed through the crowd.
"She left weeks ago…"
"No—she vanished."
"She walked into the shrine one night during the red moon and never came out."
Caelinda stood motionless, veiled, her presence like a blade under silk.
"The shrine's priestess—aided these strangers?"
The villagers looked to Arkeia, fear behind their reverence.
Arkeia clenched her jaw. Her instincts, her vision, her goddess—all demanded action. And yet… they've done no wrong.
Before she could speak again, two figures moved beside her—Thalos and Edmun, her captains.
"You… winged one."
Thalos stepped toward Galeel, eyes narrowed.
"Why does the girl sleep like the dead?" he asked, hand resting on his axe. "What has been done to her?"
Galeel blinked slowly. His voice, when it came, was a tide drawn from older shores.
"She dreams of things we forgot to name. And she sleeps because to wake would be cruelty."
Edmun approached Vharn, who was now gently strumming a lute that had not been in his hands moments before.
"What music is that?" Edmun asked warily. "It… bleeds."
Vharn grinned wide.
"It's the song she hums in her sleep."
He nodded toward Elissa.
"I just borrow the tune."
The crusaders recoiled slightly.
"You're all wrong," Edmun muttered. "Like paintings with the wrong colors."
Arkeia's voice rose—sharp and divine.
"Then I decree this: you are to come with us to Fort Dawnrise for interrogation—and judgment, if need be."
Aethon gave a mock bow.
"We've always wanted to see the inside of a holy prison."
The golden one merely smiled.
"As you wish, Lady Paladin. We do so love a trial. We would be delighted."
He bowed with theatrical grace.
"There will be no incidents," he said gently. "On my honor."
Behind him, somewhere in the spaces between breath and silence, Vharn whispered to something unseen. Galeel's wings twitched slightly. A tree behind them groaned—despite no wind.
Caelinda tilted her head slightly. Her veil shimmered like heat over a corpse.
Somewhere in the shrine, the statues wept blood.