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The sun had not risen — it merely insinuated itself through clouds of lead, staining the North with a sickly light.
The castle breathed in tense silence, as if the stones themselves feared uttering the name of what had happened the night before.
In the corridors, the servants' steps echoed restrained; they spoke softly, moving with the care of those who fear waking something that still prowls.
Rumors ran faster than orders — whispers about the marquis's firstborn, news of the priests' bodies in the temple ruins, unrecognizable.
In the main hall, the air carried the scent of iron and burnt incense. Guards whispered among themselves, and even the crows upon the battlements seemed more numerous, watching everything with eyes of omen.
The North awoke — not with the roar of a dragon, but with the silence that precedes war.
The sky was overcast, heavy, as if the North itself wept alongside its children. A gray veil filtered the scarce sunlight, staining the great courtyard with shadows and silence.
The smell of incense mingled with freshly turned earth, reminding all that here, nothing could be rushed. Soldiers lined the coffin, maintaining rigid postures; servants and allies whispered prayers almost inaudible.
The priest advanced, lifting his staff before the coffin. His deep, grave voice cut through the silence, laden with solemnity:
"Today, we gather to bid farewell to Lucien, firstborn of Marquis Alaric D'Lorien. Not merely heir to titles and lands, but guardian of honor and courage, whose youthful brilliance illuminated all around him."
The priest paused, letting each word reverberate through the courtyard.
"His life was brief, yes, but not in vain. He was a shield for the weak, an example for his brothers, and a beacon of hope for this House, now trembling before the absence of its firstborn."
The allies bowed their heads, some swallowing tears, others rigid, containing their pain.
"May the gods of the North receive his soul, and may the memory of his deeds echo through the ages..."
The priest continued, his voice almost vibrating with supernatural force. "May this loss not be in vain. May all present remember that courage, even in a life short—"
"I apologize for my impertinence." — The interruption cut through the air like a fine, cold blade, polite enough not to be ignored, but threatening nonetheless.
"I was not informed of the funeral's date or hour… Lucien was a good friend, an exemplary son, and his memory deserves more than the haste of protocol."
The restrained murmur transformed into silent shock.
It was then that Éreon appeared.
The black cloak absorbing the dim light, each step calculated, every fold of fabric carrying the shadow of a warning.
He approached the coffin, tilting his head slightly — and the movement alone seemed to challenge the solemn air.
"For a brief moment," his voice was silk with a hidden blade, "I considered you a friend."
Some exchanged tense glances. The Marquis clenched his fists, his lip trembling with contained fury.
"Your insolence…" he began, but his voice faltered before Éreon's almost theatrical calm.
"Just words," Éreon replied, raising an eyebrow slightly.
"I do not intend to replace grief with provocation. I merely allow Lucien's memory to guide your actions. And let no one be fooled: even the smallest choices carry their price."
A soldier stepped forward, hand instinctively on his sword, but a firm glance from one of the Marquis's allies held him back.
The tension seemed capable of cutting stone.
Éreon stepped back, ready to withdraw.
When he turned to the assembly, he rested his gaze on Marquis Alaric and spoke:
"I hope he did not suffer much."
The air seemed to stagnate.
The Marquis's face contorted — fury contained, as sharp as a freshly forged blade.
His eyes burned, not in explosion, but in homicidal silence, the kind of hatred that does not shout — it drowns.
A muscle tensed in his jaw; his fist closed slowly, as if every tendon carried the promise of blood.
Then the inevitable occurred.
A knight charged Éreon, sword raised, muscles taut, eyes fixed on the target.
The courtyard's silence was almost tangible, as if the air itself might fracture.
But the Marquis reacted with supernatural speed: one precise step, and he seized the knight, smashing his head into the ground, controlling every movement with mastery.
Then he bowed with impeccable posture, his deep, firm voice echoing through the courtyard:
"May you forgive her. She grew up alongside Lucien; her words may have been misinterpreted. It was not insolence, merely youthful confusion."
Éreon remained still, like obsidian, responding with cutting calm, almost whispered:
"I understand, Marquis. Were you in my place, facing the loss of a brother… curiosity to test limits could be irresistible. Today I will overlook it — but let it be known: any repetition of this insolence will find no indulgence."
The Marquis nodded, almost as if acknowledging not only Éreon's intelligence, but the balance between challenge and respect the prince maintained.
Éreon withdrew, his calculated steps echoing through the heavy silence, leaving his presence etched in the eyes of all present.
The knight remained frozen, eyes fixed on Éreon, his contained rage nearly palpable.
The priest resumed the ceremony, his solemn voice filling the space.
The North's cutting wind swept through, whispering omens of dark days no one dared call calm.
While the funeral continued, the echo of events had already crossed walls and corridors.
In the northern wing, the Queen remained in her chambers, listening to the report brought by her scouts — urgent words, delivered with reverence and caution.
"He arrived as if he commanded the wind itself," the man reported, head bowed. "His gaze was icy… and every word, Your Majesty, seemed calculated to provoke."
The Queen clasped her hands, holding her breath for a moment.
"He does not misstep," she murmured, almost to herself. "He insults only when he has measured the cost and decided to pay it."
The messenger bowed. She dismissed him with a contained gesture; her gaze remained lost at the window, afar, where the horizon was nothing but mist and steel.
Across the castle, in the dark wood-paneled study, the King heard a similar report.
The servant spoke softly, as if fearing judgment from the walls themselves.
"He did not retreat, My King. Not even before the knight. Some would say he… won a duel without wielding a weapon."
The King's fingers drummed slowly on the table. A gleam passed through his golden eyes.
"He pushes the limit until the limit yields," he said, in a grave voice. "And yet avoids the breaking point. Admirable."
While the King and Queen received reports of Éreon's conduct at the funeral, he proceeded to Éon's chambers.
Éon was already standing, adjusting his belt and checking his weapons as Éreon entered.
The silence between them was heavy, laden with the familiarity of those who know each other's every move — the breath before the blade cuts the air.
"You are not fully recovered," Éreon said, his voice firm but restrained. "You should remain here. I can handle one creature or two on my own."
Éon lifted his gaze, meeting Éreon's eyes, stance firm but free of unnecessary tension.
"No. I will go with you. I am certain I am stronger than you think. And, by what you told me before the funeral, we will have help."
Éreon walked a few steps across the room, measuring each word.
"Even if you have faced the worst, you are still not ready. You are still in transition."
Éon did not avert his gaze.
"I have made my choice, Éreon. As you made yours."
Éreon remained still for a moment, studying his brother with a dark gaze.
"Then we leave at dusk," he said finally, with the silent authority he always exuded. Without further words, he turned and left the room.
Éon watched Éreon's silhouette depart, his firm steps echoing through the silent corridors.
When the door closed behind him, there was no sound but the wind winding through the castle. Yet something whispered in his mind — a low, cutting laugh, almost tangible.
"Ah… ahahaha… ah… hahahaha… Thought you could fool him? And think ignoring me will make me vanish? Just as your mother paid the price for touching chaos… so will you. How long will it take before you kill the brother you love so dearly?"
Éreon advanced, each step precise, without haste, like one walking on blades without cutting himself.
"The only thing that held me back was your bond with Érebo. You made a mistake, brat."
The voices were not external; they came from within, persistent, trying to provoke him, trying to break him.
He smiled, only a slight curl of his lip, devoid of apparent emotion.
"Interesting…" he murmured, almost to himself, his voice laced with restrained sarcasm.
The cold wind cut through the corridor, dragging shadows along the stone walls, yet it did not break Éreon's focus.
Every laugh echoed like twisted steel through the bones, and still he advanced, controlled and lethal, preparing for what was to come.
Night had descended upon the Kingdom of the North.
In a secluded corner of the castle, Nordic runes shimmered, weak and ancient, etched into stone like scars refusing to heal. The silence was almost solid.
From the obsidian glacier emanated a dry, piercing cold; the air around seemed to weigh down, as if every breath cost effort.
Vaelrion stood before it, the black cloak clinging to his shoulders in the icy breeze. The figure within the glacier was motionless — perfect as ancient marble, the face of royalty that once ruled, frozen in time, without even a breath of life.
He leaned slightly, voice low, almost a whisper mingling with the hum of the runes:
"They departed from the territory…" he murmured, tilting his head. "Can you believe it? Not much time has passed, and they have already spread chaos throughout the North."
A brief, melancholic smile cut across his face; his golden eyes glittered in the gloom, as if reflecting memories no one could erase.
"This time," he murmured, the word heavy, laden, "my blood will not water the arid soils of the North."
He brought his hand close to the dark glass without touching it, as if seeking permission from a past that could not be appeased.
"I have come to tell you this," he continued, voice low, almost a prayer, "a rain of blood will fall upon these lands. I hope you forgive me."
Silence returned, thick, suffocating. The runes flickered as if alive, silent witnesses to the promise and its contained weight.
Vaelrion stepped back, feeling the cold seep into his bones. The glacier's shadow seemed to swallow the world.
It was an ancient seal, a memory of eras no one dared awaken. And in that frozen solitude, he understood: the answer, if it existed, would never be revealed. Only the weight of his blood, his destiny, and the memory of a North that would learn, sooner or later, that every action carries its price.