Middenland is the rich and fertile heartland situated at the center of the Kingdom of Hyfelt.
Its verdant green fields and temperate forests give birth to countless farms, fields, and foragers.
In the eastern corner of this land, where the kingdom's three great rivers meet and flow into the Great Azure Sea, lies the kingdom's magnificent capital, built of pristine white marble and crowned by towering great oaks.
It is a ginormous port city, its population nearing a million souls.
At the center of the city stands the great ancient marble castle whose appearance seems drawn straight from a fairy tale.
"Weissenhaus Castle" the seat of power where many generations of royalty have lived their lives and ruled their realm, and also a mortal reminder of their unending madness...
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Under the gentle light of the twin moons filtering through the grand mosaic window panels of the castle's vast hallway, the heavy footsteps of a young maid echoed through the empty corridors of white marble, red-gold velvet, and purple silk.
She was running.
Huffing for her life.
Her face was pale with terror, as if the blood had been drained from it. Her maid's uniform was torn and stained with blood. Bruises and cuts covered her body, and blood poured from her wounds like a raging river.
Behind her walked a young man whose face was as beautiful and flawless as that of a fae.
He wore garments of pristine silk in purple and gold. Short silver hair framed his face beneath a laurel crown of gold and jewels. Yet the expression upon that perfect face was that of something twisted, something devilish.
In one hand he carried a meat cleaver soaked in blood.
In the other, a black leather whip lined with thorns.
"Oh… please… stop running, my love. It is only going to hurt you more…" he spoke in a low, quiet voice.
The thorned whip rattled and tore at the red velvet carpet beneath his feet as he walked forward at a slow, relaxed pace. His amethyst-purple eyes remained fixed on his prey.
He is in fact the crown prince of the realms.
Even after hearing his voice, even as indescribable pain coursed through her entire body, the maid did not stop.
In fact, she ran even faster.
The maid's breath came in ragged sobs as she burst through a pair of towering oak doors and stumbled into the grand antechamber leading to the royal wing.
At the far end of the hall, beneath a chandelier of crystal shaped like cascading starlight, stood a young woman clad in flowing white silk trimmed with silver thread.
Her silver hair fell neatly down her back. A circlet of pale amethyst rested upon her brow.
The Princess.
The maid collapsed at her feet.
"Y.. Your Highness… please… save me…"
Her trembling hands clutched at the hem of the princess's gown, smearing it with streaks of red.
The prince's measured footsteps echoed closer.
The princess looked past the broken girl and toward her approaching brother. Her expression was composed, almost serene.
"Brother," she said gently, "must you be cruel within the palace?"
The prince stopped several paces away. The cleaver rested easily at his side. The thorned whip coiled loosely in his other hand.
His smile curved faintly.
"She ran."
The princess sighed, as if mildly inconvenienced.
The maid dared to look up, hope flickering weakly in her bloodshot eyes.
"Please… I will serve you faithfully… I swear…"
The princess lowered herself gracefully, placing one delicate hand upon the maid's head.
"There, there," she whispered softly. "You are safe now."
The prince tilted his head, watching with idle curiosity.
In one fluid motion, so quick it was almost tender, the princess drew a thin silver hairpin from her own coiffure and drove it cleanly into the maid's throat, just beneath the jaw.
A wet gasp escaped the girl's lips.
Her body convulsed once.
Then stilled.
The princess held her as she bled out across the marble floor, crimson spreading like spilled wine across winter stone.
She gently lowered the corpse.
Silence returned to the hallway.
The prince blinked.
Then he smiled wider.
The princess rose, smoothing her gown as though nothing of consequence had occurred.
"You should not make the carpet dirty," she said lightly, glancing toward the torn velvet runner trailing behind him. "And you truly should not play with your prey inside the royal wing. It is unsightly."
The prince glanced down at the shredded fabric beneath his boots.
A faint chuckle escaped him.
"You are right, dear sister."
He wiped the cleaver lazily against the already ruined carpet.
Then, with that same beautiful, empty smile, he turned and walked away, silver hair glinting beneath the moonlight.
He did not look back.
Moments later, a scream shattered the stillness of the palace.
A ragged, aged scream.
It came from deeper within the royal chambers.
The prince did not pause.
But the Princess did.
Without haste, she stepped over the cooling body of the maid and made her way toward the king's private quarters.
The royal guards outside the chamber stiffened but said nothing as she entered.
Inside, the once-mighty King of Hyfelt lay tangled in silk sheets, his frail body trembling. His once commanding frame had withered to skin and bone. Sweat drenched his nightclothes. His silver hair that's lost it's shine clung damply to his temples.
His eyes were wide with terror.
"Father," she said gently as she approached his bedside. "It was only a dream."
He seized her wrist with surprising strength.
"No," he rasped. "No… not merely a dream…"
His breathing was uneven, panicked.
"I saw it again… the vision… clear as daylight…"
She knelt beside him.
"Tell me."
His voice shook.
"A serpent… a lion… and a bear… they circled the White Oak…"
His fingers trembled violently.
"They danced around it… laughing… as it burned…"
His eyes widened further, reflecting invisible flames.
"And above them… a dove… circling… triumphant…"
His breath hitched.
"The White Oak was our banner… our crest… our bloodline…"
He gripped her hand harder.
" This is no idle nightmare. It is an omen. A terrible one."
The White Oak of Hyfelt.
Their family symbol.
Carved into every shield. Embroidered on every royal banner. Rooted into the identity of the kingdom itself.
She placed her other hand over his.
"Father," she said softly, her tone warm, almost maternal. "Dreams born from fever often wear the masks of prophecy. You are just unwell."
He shook his head weakly.
"No… I know the difference… "
His eyes searched hers.
"You must protect the Oak… protect our name…"
She leaned closer, brushing damp strands of hair from his brow.
"I will," she whispered.
Slowly, his breathing steadied beneath her calm presence. His grip loosened. Exhaustion pulled him back into uneasy rest.
When his eyes finally closed, she remained seated for a long moment, her face unreadable.
Then she stood.
The chamber was silent save for the crackle of the fireplace.
She walked toward the door, her steps measured.
As her hand touched the handle, her expression shifted ever so slightly.
Her internal thoughts stirred like dark water.
The serpent.
The lion.
The bear.
Dancing around the burning White Oak.
And the dove circling above in triumph.
She had seen it too.
Not once.
But three nights in a row.
The same flames.
The same circling shapes.
The same sense of inevitability.
She understood it with clear clarity.
The serpent was cunning.
The lion, power.
The bear, endurance.
The dove… unity, perhaps. Or victory.
She stepped into the corridor, the doors closing softly behind her.
Her reflection flickered in the polished marble walls.
For a brief moment, beneath the gentle glow of the twin moons, her calm mask thinned.
"Inevitability does not mean I should not try to take advantage of it," she thought, as a smile on her face.
The smile of someone as cunning as a fox, yet with a heart as cold as Arctic ice.