Moonlight gleamed on the marble walls of a modest lodge hidden deep in the forest, far from the capital's noise and intrigue. The light danced across the surface of a small lake beside the structure, creating ripples of silver that seemed almost alive in the darkness.
The night was silent—unnaturally so, as if even the crickets and night birds knew to keep their distance from this sacred, sorrowful place.
Ten men stood guard outside the lodge, positioned at every entrance with military precision. Their postures spoke of absolute focus, of warriors who'd seen too much blood to ever be truly at ease. In their hands were weapons that gleamed dully in the moonlight—spears made of adamantine, swords forged from the finest iron, daggers crafted from steel that had been folded a thousand times.
A foul stench hung in the air around them. The scent of old blood, of violence done and violence prepared for. These were not ceremonial guards playing at protection. These were killers, standing between their dying king and a world full of knives in the dark.
Inside the lodge, the atmosphere was different. Softer. Sadder.
The space was small but luxurious in the way that only true craftsmanship could achieve—every surface polished, every corner precise, every detail speaking of care and devotion. Silk hangings in deep crimson covered the walls. Incense burned in brass holders, filling the air with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh. A single oil lamp cast warm light across the room's centerpiece: a bed draped in cloth that had once been white but now carried the stains of sickness.
On that bed lay King Takam of Ankh.
He had been handsome once—strikingly so, the kind of beauty that made poets weep and artists despair of ever capturing it properly. Traces of that beauty remained in the elegant line of his jaw, the perfect symmetry of his features, the intelligence that still burned in his eyes. But illness had carved its signature across him with cruel precision. His skin, once rich and dark as fertile soil, now held an ashen undertone. His frame, which had filled out armor and commanded armies, was withered to near skeletal thinness. Even breathing seemed to cost him effort.
Beside the bed, seated on a simple bamboo chair, was Steward Zogo.
The man who commanded elders and influenced kingdoms sat with his head slightly bowed, his massive frame somehow made small by the weight of grief. When he looked at King Takam, his eyes held something rarely seen by anyone—vulnerability, devotion, and a love that transcended duty.
"Zogo," the king said, his voice barely above a whisper yet somehow still carrying that quality of command that made people listen. "Your decision was right. As always, you will manage to sort the situation out."
A genuine smile spread across Zogo's face—not the careful, controlled expression he showed the elders, but something open and almost childlike in its sincerity.
"Thank you for the praise, sir King."
It was remarkable, really, how the man who held ultimate authority in council meetings acted like a boy seeking approval from a beloved father. But then, that's exactly what Takam had been to him. Not just a king. Not just a ruler. But the father Zogo had lost, the mentor who'd shaped him, the friend who'd trusted him with everything.
King Takam shifted on the bed, trying to sit up slightly. The effort cost him, but he managed it with the stubborn dignity of someone who refused to be completely diminished by weakness.
"Have you figured out who the traitors are?" he asked, then immediately dissolved into coughing—harsh, wracking spasms that shook his entire frame. "Cough! Cough! COUGH!"
Zogo was on his feet instantly, one hand steadying the king's shoulder, the other reaching for the water pitcher beside the bed. But Takam waved him away with surprising strength, determined to finish his thought.
"My younger brother," he continued when he could speak again, his voice tinged with bitterness and sorrow. "He aims for a throne that isn't rightfully his. He knows of my condition, therefore acts with such boldness. He must've corrupted some of the elders for political support. When I die..." He paused, the words catching in his throat. "When I die, he will fully reveal his cards. Everything I've built for our people—the peace, the prosperity, the spiritual awakening—he'll tear it all down for his own glory."
The misery in his voice was palpable, and Zogo felt it like a physical blow to his chest.
"I have an idea who they are, sir," Zogo said calmly, though fury burned cold in his heart at the thought of traitors betraying this good man. "As soon as I have confirmation, I will act. Swiftly. Completely."
The unspoken promise hung in the air: those who betrayed Takam would not live long enough to celebrate his death.
King Takam nodded, seeming to draw comfort from Zogo's certainty. Then his expression shifted, became more urgent, more vulnerable.
"The children," he said. "Did you manage to evacuate them? Are they safe?"
Zogo settled back into his chair, his posture radiating confidence.
"Yes, sir King. All three are safe. I personally oversaw their evacuation and made sure to erase every trace of their presence. Your younger brother's agents won't be able to find them, no matter how hard they search."
"Good. Good." Relief flooded Takam's features, and for just a moment, some of the tension left his wasted frame. "They're innocent in all of this. Whatever happens between my brother and me, they deserve to live."
"They will, sir King. I give you my word."
Takam studied Zogo's face for a long moment, and something like peace settled over him.
"When the time comes," he said quietly, "open the seal I gave you. Inside is the name of my chosen successor. You probably already know who it is, if you've been paying attention." A ghost of his old smile—mischievous, full of life—flickered across his face. "Haha—cough! Cough!"
The coughing fit was worse this time. Sweat poured down Takam's forehead as his body betrayed him once again. Zogo watched with barely concealed anguish, knowing there was nothing he could do but wait for it to pass.
When Takam could speak again, his voice was weaker but determined.
"Keep an eye on them. Make sure they receive proper spiritual initiation at the designated time. The ancestors have shown me visions, Zogo. This one... this one will bring even more light to our five lands than I ever could. They will unite what has been divided. They will remember what we've forgotten."
His eyes held a prophet's certainty, and despite everything, he smiled.
Zogo bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching his knees—a gesture of ultimate respect reserved only for this man, in this moment.
"Consider it done, sir King."
"Our bloodline truly owes you, Steward," Takam said, and now his voice carried the weight of formal pronouncement. He raised one trembling hand toward the ceiling, fingers splayed as if touching something invisible. "You and your descendants will forever live in peace in these lands. This I decree. This the ancestors witness. From my line to yours, protection eternal."
The words resonated in the room like a bell struck in a temple, carrying power that went beyond mere promise. This was covenant. This was sacred oath witnessed by forces beyond mortal comprehension.
Zogo felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders like a cloak—heavy with responsibility, warm with love.
"Sir King, I—"
"I need to rest now," Takam interrupted gently, his eyes already closing. "Exit the room, old friend. We've said what needed saying."
For a moment, Zogo didn't move. He sat there, watching the rise and fall of Takam's chest, memorizing this moment because some part of him knew—with terrible certainty—that there wouldn't be many more like it.
Then he stood, bowed once more, and moved toward the door.
At the threshold, he paused and looked back.
King Takam lay still on his bed, looking small and fragile in the lamplight. But even diminished, even dying, there was something noble about him. Something that spoke of sacrifices made for people who would never know, of burdens carried alone, of a king who'd chosen service over glory.
"Sleep well, my king," Zogo whispered. "The kingdom is safe tonight. I'll make sure of it."
Outside, the ten guards snapped to attention as Zogo emerged. He gave them a single nod, and they relaxed fractionally—though their eyes never stopped scanning the darkness for threats.
Zogo walked to the lake's edge and stood there for a long moment, staring at the moonlight on the water.
A dying king. Traitors in the court. Children hidden away for their own safety. A succession sealed and secret. And now, added to all of it, the threat of war with Gold Land.
The weight of it all should have been crushing.
But as Zogo stood there in the moonlight, he felt only resolve. Takam had given him purpos, had shaped him into something more than he'd ever thought possible. And now, as his king lay dying, Zogo would honor that gift the only way that mattered.
By protecting everything Takam had built. By guiding his chosen successor. By being the shield that stood between a good man's legacy and those who would destroy it.
"I won't fail you," he promised the night, the moon, the sleeping king, and the ancestors who watched from beyond the veil. "Whatever it costs. Whatever it takes. I won't fail you."
The lake rippled with wind, carrying his words away into darkness.
And somewhere, perhaps, the ancestors heard and approved.