The morning in Carfein began with a strange calm. The corridors were quieter than usual, as though the castle itself waited for something unspoken. Aria had grown used to the stillness—after all, every sunrise lately felt like another unanswered question. Lirien had been spending hours in closed chambers, whispering orders to guards, sending sealed scrolls across the realm. Even the wind outside had lost its rhythm, brushing against the stained windows as if it too wished to know what he planned.
She was in the library tower that morning, pretending to read but really staring out the window. The pages of the book had stopped making sense hours ago. What kept her attention was the faint sound of boots echoing far below, in the grand corridor. A deep, heavy rhythm. Military. Controlled. She leaned slightly forward, curiosity pricking at her chest. Through the narrow slit of the window, she caught a glimpse of black movement below—a procession of figures crossing the courtyard.
Three of them.
They moved in perfect unison, their steps slow and deliberate. Each wore a long black cloak that shimmered faintly under the torchlight. Their faces were hidden, but Aria noticed something odd—where the sleeves shifted, grey hands, almost stone-like, caught the light. Not pale skin. Grey. Cold and colorless, like something carved rather than born.
Aria frowned and whispered under her breath, "Who are you?"
A sudden knock startled her. She turned to see Sira standing at the door, holding a stack of scrolls. The healer's apprentice had been assigned to watch over Aria since her… "incident" in the lower halls. Her expression was nervous, though she tried to hide it behind a smile.
"Still reading?" Sira asked."Trying," Aria replied, her voice distant. "Who are they? The ones below in the courtyard."Sira hesitated. "You saw them?""Yes.""Then you'll see more. Lirien's bringing them inside. You might want to stay quiet today."
Before Aria could ask more, the horn sounded—deep, echoing through the castle. A summons. The corridor outside flooded with guards and servants rushing toward the main hall. Sira sighed, set her scrolls aside, and motioned for Aria to follow.
They reached the grand corridor in time to see Lirien himself walking through the central gate. His long coat was trimmed in silver, his hair tied loosely behind his head, and his expression—cold as carved glass. The three cloaked men followed behind him. Every step they took seemed to drain the warmth from the air. Even the torches flickered lower as they passed.
The court gathered. Advisors, generals, captains—all lined the corridor's edge. Lirien stopped at the base of the throne stair, then turned. His voice filled the hall, deep and unhurried.
"Everyone, meet our new allies," he said. "They have come from far beyond the Eastern Frostlands, from the ruins that once were the Amoth frontier. They are loyal to Carfein, and to the order I am building here."
The tallest of the cloaked figures stepped forward, lowering his hood. His face was long, marked by faint scars running from cheek to jaw. His eyes—pale yellow, almost glowing—met Lirien's without flinching.
"I am Derris," he said. "And these—" he gestured slightly to his left and right— "are my brothers, Mein and Jacob."
The two others pulled down their hoods as well. They looked younger but no less unsettling. Same ashen skin, same cold gaze. A faint murmur spread through the gathered crowd. Aria caught words like "Chronis," "recruits," "greyhands."
Lirien continued, his tone smooth as silk. "Derris and his kin will join our elite. I have decided that Chronis will no longer remain six. From today, there shall be seven."
A low gasp rippled through the hall. Chronis—the six sacred squads sworn to the throne—were the highest authority under the king. To create a seventh was unthinkable. It meant rewriting Carfein's own history.
Lirien ignored the whispers. "Of course," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "the honor must be earned. As our tradition dictates, Derris and his brothers will prove themselves in the Tournament of Blades. Victory over three squads shall grant them their place."
Someone from the crowd stepped forward—an older man in white armor, his beard silver, his eyes sharp. "My lord, that tournament has not been held in thirty years."
"Then it's time to bring it back," Lirien said simply. "Carfein must be reminded that strength deserves recognition, not inheritance."
The hall fell silent again. Derris inclined his head slightly, his lips curling into what might have been a smile—or a warning.
"As you command," he said.
Lirien nodded once, then turned to leave. As he walked past Aria's corner, she felt that old, sharp chill crawl across her skin again—the same one she'd felt the night of the storm. His eyes didn't meet hers, but somehow she knew he was aware of her watching.
When the hall began to clear, Sira grabbed Aria's arm. "Don't stare like that," she whispered."I wasn't.""You were. And you don't want him to notice."Aria frowned. "Who are they really?"Sira exhaled slowly, glancing down the hall before speaking. "The Greyhands. Or what's left of them. My grandmother told me stories. They were mercenaries once—assassins who sold their loyalty to the highest bidder. They vanished years ago. People said the Amoth war wiped them out.""But they didn't," Aria said quietly."No. And if Derris is leading them now… then things are changing. Fast."
They began walking back toward the cell block where Aria was being kept. The corridors felt different now, heavier somehow. Aria kept replaying Derris' voice in her head. There had been no emotion in it, no hesitation, like he'd spoken those words a thousand times before. She could tell from the way he moved that he was dangerous. Not in the loud, showy way of soldiers—but in the quiet, precise way of those who already knew they'd win.
That night, Carfein was restless. Aria couldn't sleep. The torches outside her cell cast trembling shadows on the wall, like fingers reaching across stone. She lay awake listening to the faint echoes of metal clashing in the training grounds below—Chronis captains testing their weapons, preparing for the tournament.
Footsteps approached. She tensed until she heard the familiar soft voice.
"Can't sleep either?" Sira asked, sitting on the floor outside the cell bars.Aria shook her head. "Not with all that noise.""They're preparing for Derris," Sira murmured. "The Chronis are proud. They won't let some outsider take a seat among them without a fight."Aria turned her head slightly. "Who are the six again?"Sira thought for a moment. "White Bears Chronis—they guard the northern borders. Young Leaves—mostly scouts. Winding Waves, they handle sea routes. Rock Fierce—the fortress defenders. Moon Chronis, the king's personal guards. And Justice Guide—Lirien's own command.""Justice Guide," Aria repeated softly. "So Derris will have to defeat three of them?"Sira nodded. "And everyone will watch. It's not just about strength, it's about loyalty. If he wins, it means Lirien wants him to."
The silence that followed was thick. Aria stared at the small window above, the moon a thin slice of white light.
"Sira," she said after a while, "what if he's not bringing them for loyalty? What if he's building something else?"
Sira looked uneasy. "Then Carfein's crown isn't the only thing that will change."
Down in the courtyard, the black-cloaked brothers trained under torchlight, their movements precise and soundless. Each strike they made looked effortless, each parry too fast for the eye to follow. Aria could only see their silhouettes through the bars, but even from that distance, she felt it—the same kind of silence that came before storms.
And far across the castle, in the upper chamber, Lirien watched from his window, the faintest smile ghosting across his face. "The game begins," he whispered to himself.