The weather was calm and beautiful—cold, but not bitter. Winter's harsh grip had not yet reached this sheltered spot. The "Rear Castle," as the Bridge Knights called it, was their favorite place. Here, the warmth of the forest reached them—a faint, rustling warmth, but enough to keep them comfortable.
Ahtal murmured as he stared at the dark, intimidating edge of the forest.
"Is it time?"
Next to him stood another knight, hiding his bald head beneath a hood. His name was Imlas, which in the old tongue meant Smooth-Head. The name suited him perfectly. He had been bald since birth, a sickness having taken every strand of hair from him—even his eyelashes and eyebrows.
"It seems it is," Imlas replied.
"Then let's hurry before the moment passes," Ahtal said. "I can't endure that madman's barking any longer."
Imlas looked around nervously, ensuring no other knight could hear.
"Careful, Ahtal. Don't let anyone hear you. These men are as loyal to him as you are to your mother."
Ahtal scowled.
"Who said I love my mother?"
Imlas blinked, surprised.
"By the gods… who hates a mother's care?"
"I never had what you had, you bald fool," Ahtal muttered.
Imlas hesitated.
"I suppose that was intrusive of me," he said quietly. "But why didn't you have it?"
"I was small," Ahtal replied. "Very small. So small I don't even remember my mother's face… though I'm certain it was ugly."
Imlas cut him off.
"Yes, I agree with that. You do seem to resemble her."
Ignoring his companion's mockery, Ahtal continued.
"But I remember when she left me beside my father's corpse. He was dying—coughing up blood, his eyes streaming red."
He paused.
"I've never forgotten that sight. And I've never forgotten what my mother did. When my father worsened and died before my eyes… she did nothing. No screams. No grief. She simply left me there with his body."
He sighed and continued.
"After my father's death, I heard she married another man. Later, I heard he killed her. I don't know why… and I don't care."
Imlas shook his head sympathetically.
"That's life, my friend. It's not fair—to you or to me."
He paused, then asked,
"Is that why you became a Bridge Knight?"
Ahtal nodded.
"Yes. Where else could I go? I have nothing in town. I'd rather die from an arrow in the forest than rot alone in a street, my body thrown onto Moon Hill."
The two walked along the castle wall before descending into the courtyard. There, the squad knight waited—the harsh man who bore deep hatred for Ahtal and Imlas.
He was a towering knight, nearly six feet tall, with short blond hair and sharp, blade-like features. His piercing blue eyes scanned the courtyard, and his gleaming blue armor shone in the morning light. He stood proudly among his retinue, engrossed in conversation.
Soon, he decided the Hour of Prosperity had arrived. His dry voice rang out.
"It is time!"
A hoarse shout followed from one of his knights.
"It's time, you bastards! Line up!"
Ahtal and Imlas fell into formation. Others joined them, standing before the reconnaissance squad knight—the man responsible for sending men to the edges of the Great Forest during a special hour known as the Hour of Prosperity, once called the Hour of Tar.
During this hour, life beyond the forest seemed to stop—as if the world itself were holding its breath. No arrows flew from the shadows. No sound stirred. No movement was seen.
No one knew exactly why this hour came, somewhere between the death of night and the birth of dawn. But instead of questioning it, the Bridge Knights used the sacred moment to their advantage, after it was discovered by Tar the Explorer.
They became the White Bridge Knights, venturing into the forest to explore, gather intelligence, draw maps, and chart portions of the land. Not all of it, for their path was blocked not by arrows, but by strange and predatory creatures.
In the last ten years, their mission had evolved. They no longer merely explored. They now harvested the forest's riches—especially the waters known as the Water of Life.
Knights risked their lives for it. It was said that drinking it granted strength, health… perhaps even immortality. No one knew for sure. But all knew that such pure water could not be found anywhere else in the kingdom.
Along with the water, they brought back fresh fruits—rare treasures in the harsh northern islands where little else could grow.
As they stood in formation, Ahtal whispered to Imlas.
"The bastard will pick us. Like always."
"Please," Imlas muttered. "Not like last time. I don't want to spend another night with Shomron."
"You fool," Ahtal hissed. "You blame me for what happened? You refused the duty yourself."
"I didn't want you to face it alone," Imlas said quietly. "But please… when he chooses us… stay silent."
The squad knight's voice suddenly rang out.
"It is time, you thirsty dogs!"
He gestured toward them.
"What are you?"
Their answer shook the courtyard.
"Dogs of the Bridge!"
The knight repeated the question, either testing their loyalty or savoring their humiliation.
"What are you?"
Their voices thundered.
"DOGS OF THE BRIDGE!"
"Prove it!"
Their barking erupted.
"Awooooooooo!"
The knight smiled cruelly.
"Good. That's enough. Loud voices—that's what I want."
His sharp gaze settled on Ahtal and Imlas, recalling the night he had forced them to spend inside the freezing cage with Shomron as punishment for disobedience.
They were not like the others—the men who crawled before him, licking his boots and humiliating themselves for an extra bite or a warm seat at a feast. Unlike the rest, who competed to gain privileges and avoid the Duty of Prosperity.
"Step forward, you two dogs."
They stepped out of line.
"You will perform today's duty."
This was his revenge. His authority over the Rear Castle was limited—only twelve knights served there, and he could send only two at a time.
But he always sent the ones he hated.
"Who will bring Shomron?" he asked.
"I will, sir," Imlas replied.
He hurried off and returned dragging Shomron from his cage.
The creature resembled a dog—but no ordinary dog. A hybrid monstrosity, strange and terrifying. Its body was twisted, sending chills down the spine, covered in thick dark-brown fur. Its head was enormous, its features hidden beneath the fur except for long, razor-sharp fangs. From its paws extended dagger-like claws, stronger than dragon talons.
Despite its fearsome appearance, the Bridge Knights valued it highly. Shomron could detect creatures from great distances, barking loudly to warn them. Its greatest usefulness was during the Duty of Prosperity. In the right hands, it was a treasure beyond price.
Imlas dragged Shomron, chains thick and heavy, wrapped tightly around the creature's neck and the massive muscles hidden beneath its fur.
Meanwhile, the squad knight barked orders in his harsh voice.
"Open the gate!"
In his right hand, he held the gate-opening permit—a single sheet of paper bearing the signature of the High Commander of the Bridge Knights. No one else was authorized to open the gate; all others, even the elite, received orders solely from the High Commander.
The iron gate groaned as it swung open, a sound that made the air itself shiver. Fear crept into Imlas's bones. Between clenched teeth, he whispered broken, trembling words.
"Everything will be fine… it will be fine… forest monsters… maybe they are asleep… yes… maybe they are asleep…"
Shomron interrupted his thoughts with a sharp sniff of the ground. The beast knew its duty. It knew what it must do.
Together, the two moved toward the edge of the forest, approaching the very brink of the abyss. Ahtal glanced back at the castle, which was not far, and saw the knight atop the wall, watching them with sharp eyes and a cruel, precise smile, as if bidding them a cold farewell.
Throughout the journey, Imlas held the chains tight, restraining Shomron with all his strength.
About five hundred feet from the forest boundary, Ahtal halted, surprised. Something along the path had changed, something he had noticed. Having walked this route many times on the Duty of Prosperity, he knew every small detail of the trail.
He pointed north.
"Look, Imlas! Look to your north!"
Shomron's nails scraped the snow, interrupting Ahtal's thoughts. The beast sniffed the air, fully aware of its task.
They continued toward the edge of the forest, closer now to the abyss itself. Ahtal glanced again at the castle in a fleeting look, catching the knight atop the wall. His expression remained sharp, the farewell smile etched cruelly across his face.
Imlas continued to hold Shomron tightly, controlling the creature's immense strength.
When they were roughly five hundred feet from the forest's boundary, Ahtal noticed again: something was different on this snowy path. His countless trips on the Duty of Prosperity had trained him to observe even the smallest detail.
"Look to your north!" he repeated, pointing.
Imlas looked. Three hundred feet away stood two enormous trees, as massive as mountains. Their twisted trunks intertwined like supporting bodies, branches reaching upward as though trying to escape, forming a canopy like a thick cloud. Their gnarled limbs jutted outward like monstrous arms.
The trees were isolated from the boundary, as if someone had flung them there.
Imlas squinted, dismissing them at first.
"I don't see anything," he said.
"The trees, you fool!" Ahtal snapped.
Imlas squinted harder, realization dawning.
"Ah… yes… I see them now. But… what of them?"
"They belong here, idiot! This is their place! Have you ever seen them here before?" Ahtal's brow furrowed.
Imlas frowned, thinking hard, trying to recall his last Duty of Prosperity.
"I… I can't remember!"
"I swear by the Five Crafts, they weren't here before," Ahtal said.
"But… why does it worry you?" Imlas asked.
Ahtal scowled.
"Is your father a fool?"
"What?" Imlas replied.
"Is your father a fool?" Ahtal repeated, voice sharp.
"Both asking and insulting me?" Imlas said, his tone dumbly calm.
"Both!" Ahtal snapped, then shook his head, knowing the slow-witted fool had not grasped his meaning.
"Forget it for now. We'll take Shomron with us—just in case we run into danger at the lake."
"What???" Imlas shouted, startled.
"I didn't repeat myself. This is serious!" Ahtal growled.
"By the gods… the knight is watching us now! If we take Shomron, when we return, we'll spend an entire week in the cold with him!" Imlas groaned.
Ahtal glanced back toward the knight, who looked small from this distance, yet he saw a signal of the hand urging them forward. Then his eyes fell upon the two trees, and a wave of terror gripped him. His whisper trembled between his teeth as he muttered to himself,
"How… how did they grow here?!… Did they do this?… Is this a warning for us?… Could this be our last duty?"
He tried to calm himself, speaking softly, as if convincing his own mind,
"Perhaps I just didn't notice them before… yes, maybe I truly didn't notice…"
But another voice inside him, laced with doubt and fear, replied,
"That's impossible… we've walked this path for over a year… I'm certain, there were no trees here before!"
Imlas broke Ahtal's mounting tension, his voice cutting sharply through the silence as he stared at the trees.
"By the heavens, Ahtal! Now is not the time for silence! I'll secure it!"
Ahtal whispered to himself, surrendering to what he feared was fate.
"Perhaps… death awaits us… it has hunted me long enough, and I am weary of waiting."
Then, resigned, he answered Imlas,
"Very well… secure it here, Baldy."
Imlas drove the chain into the ground and stood before Shomron, speaking in the old tongue:
"Trondo Nimra, Trondo! Bi ra pors."
(Guard, Shomron. Guard, and warn if you find anything.)
Once Shomron was secured, he lifted his nose above the thick fur, sniffing the air, heavy breaths audible. Then Imlas and Ahtal left him behind and ventured toward the forest.
Ahtal's sharp, skeptical eyes tracked every movement, every whisper of the wind, anticipating danger in every shadow. Imlas tried to mimic his friend's caution, but his lack of experience and wisdom showed in his hesitant, erratic steps. Yet Ahtal's presence beside him dulled the edge of his fear. Their bond ran deep, forged over more than fifteen years of service in the White Bridge, long enough to cultivate trust and unspoken understanding.
Ahtal whispered as they crept cautiously forward, attempting to intimidate Imlas,
"Do you remember that time? When we faced the Red Valley lions?"
Imlas shivered, recalling the terrifying scene.
"The… the glowing eyes… the long fangs…"
"Survived we did," Ahtal cut in, voice grave, void of mockery.
"But this time, luck may not favor us. We must move faster… and more cautiously."
Fear gripped Imlas as Ahtal's words sank in, and he regretted leaving Shomron behind. But it was too late. They stepped into the forest, and in that instant, everything changed.
The air was different—thicker, alive with the scent of nature and vitality. The ground beneath them, once icy and unyielding, now felt soft and fertile beneath their boots. Ahtal and Imlas felt a strange stirring within themselves, greeted by a breathtaking scene: colossal trees, like green giants, their interlaced branches forming a dense canopy of vibrant leaves. Strange birds chirped throughout the enchanted glade, producing melodies neither had ever heard before.
But most astonishing of all was the warmth. A marvelous heat displaced the bitter cold of winter, transforming the forest into a sunlit oasis.
"We should shed our armor," Imlas said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"It's as hot as the southern lands here."
Ahtal's eyes scanned the surroundings intently.
"Have you ever been to the south?"
"No," Imlas replied coolly.
Ahtal shot him a sharp, piercing look, carrying a single unspoken meaning: "You foolish fool!"
But the tranquility of the forest was fleeting. A faint whisper wove through the trees, accompanied by the soft crackle of footsteps on scattered dry branches—a sound partly masked by the birds' singing, yet clear to the two men.
The eerie noise followed them as they moved, and terror tightened its grip on Imlas. Ahtal, however, had felt tension coursing through his veins ever since setting foot in the forest, and ever since seeing the two strange trees.
Imlas froze, fear peaking, whispering through trembling lips,
"Do you hear that?"
Ahtal feigned ignorance.
"I hear nothing."
"By the gods, Ahtal!" Imlas snapped, knowing his friend well enough to see through the lie. He whispered again, voice shaking, eyes darting around,
"Let's go back! Tell them a giant bear, a ferocious wolf, or a monstrous spider… anything terrifying… chased us!"
Ahtal tried to calm him.
"Do not be cowardly. If there were truly something, Shomron would bark!"
Yet even with these words, Ahtal sensed deep within that something was amiss. Shomron's silence did nothing to ease his unease.
They pressed on. Imlas lingered, hesitant, wavering between retreat and advance. Ahtal called out,
"Do you wish to spend the night with Shomron? If you manage to come out alive!"
Imlas surrendered to the inevitable, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Very well… let's hurry!"
They continued between the massive trees, surrounded by the forest's stunning beauty. Despite the lingering fear and Ahtal's tense worry, the lush green grass and vibrant plants quelled some of their dread.
Their goal was simple—and close. The "Sweetwater Lake" was almost within reach. After only a few steps, they emerged into a wide, circular clearing where the massive trees vanished. At the center lay the dark lake—Sweetwater Lake—glimmering peacefully, bordered by patches of cultivated fruits and vegetables.
Imlas admired the beauty, marveling as fear ebbed away before the grandeur of the scene. He took a deep breath.
"Paradise!"
He moved toward the fruit trees beside the lake.
"All I want from the craftsman is a wife, and a place like this!"
Ahtal frowned, lips curling in a bitter smile.
"I doubt any woman would accept that face of yours."
He gestured toward the lake, urging,
"Come on, quickly. Before something appears to ruin this happy moment!"
Imlas groaned in annoyance at his friend's mockery.
"Nothing here could ruin it more than you!"
Ahtal ignored his companion and pulled ten leather flasks from beneath his armor. Carefully, he began filling one with the sweet water—the finest in the entire kingdom. But, to his misfortune, these flasks were not for him; they were reserved for the Grand Commander of the Bridge Knights and his elite warriors, with a special share for the prince, of course.
As he filled the flasks, Imlas focused on his own task, stuffing linen sacks with fresh fruit. He plucked one fruit after another, devouring one while grabbing the next.
"Faster, you fool!" Ahtal snapped in urgency. "Gather as much as you can so we can leave quickly!"
Imlas, chewing a large red apple, replied,
"By your life, Ahtal! Must we live every day like this? Let me savor this paradise a little!"
He swallowed with difficulty, coughing before he continued. Meanwhile, something caught Ahtal's attention near the lake, lying on the ground as if dropped or forgotten. Carefully setting the flasks aside, he approached the strange object.
It was neither a stone nor a piece of wood—it was a dagger. A shining blade, inlaid with strange stones that sparkled like stars, and covered with intricate patterns that mesmerized the eye. Ahtal lifted it between his fingers, rotating it, feeling the smooth handle and the sharp edge, and whispered in astonishment,
"Look at this, Imlas!"
Imlas, still busy with the fruit, was called sharply,
"Look here, Baldy!"
He finally turned, eyes wide.
"When did you get a dagger?"
Ahtal pointed at the blade.
"You fool, I found it here."
Imlas recoiled.
"Leave that cursed thing alone! Let's go!"
But Ahtal stood firm, gripping the dagger tightly.
"It's mine now."
"This belongs to someone! It could be enchanted or… dangerous. Put it back!" Imlas warned.
Ahtal stared at the dagger.
"I cannot leave it!"
"Think, Ahtal! What will happen if it's disturbed here?" Imlas pressed.
Ahtal scoffed,
"They'll tire of wasting their time. Nothing else will happen."
"Leave the dagger, Ahtal," Imlas insisted.
Yet Ahtal clutched the blade and, gathering the flasks, said,
"Let's go!"
Imlas could do nothing but watch, anxiety and fear growing with every step of Ahtal's boldness. They departed Sweetwater Lake, stepping out of the warm forest embrace, when a strange sound arose—soft, rustling, drifting through the trees. But this sound was different, clearer, more insistent, suggesting a creature lurked nearby, filling their hearts with dread.
Suddenly, Shomron's howl pierced the air, a warning of imminent danger. The two men broke into a run. From between the trees, a monstrous creature emerged—an abomination. Its face was twisted, more than five strange eyes scattered across its head, its decomposed body hinting at rot. Towering over them, its height rivaled the forest trees.
It bellowed like a rusty gate groaning, freezing the two men with terror. Step by step, it advanced—but then suddenly stopped, as if something repelled it. Slowly, it retreated, vanishing completely into the forest.
They could hardly believe what had occurred, sprinting forward so fast that some of Ahtal's flasks fell, and fruit spilled from Imlas' sack.
They shot toward the castle like arrows released from a taut bow. Upon reaching Shomron, the creature attempted to strike Ahtal. Ahtal stepped back as Imlas caught his breath and grabbed Shomron's chain, yanking him forcefully toward the castle. Yet Shomron refused to move, his furry head turned toward Ahtal, eyes wild and menacing. Imlas pulled harder, forcing the beast to obey.
The anxiety gnawed at both of them, as if they carried a heavy secret.
"Do we tell them?" Imlas whispered fearfully.
"Who would believe what happened there? Did they believe us last time?" Ahtal replied bitterly.
"What do we do then? Some fruit fell from the sack," Imlas asked in despair.
"Just be silent! Leave the rest to me," Ahtal said firmly.
They continued onward. At each step, Imlas struggled with Shomron, who seemed intent on vengeance, lunging at Ahtal as though recalling an old grudge.
"What's gotten into you, you cursed beast?!" Imlas shouted, yanking the chain violently.
Finally, they reached the castle gates, their faces flushed with exhaustion, sweat dripping despite the biting cold. The gates opened, and they entered, Shomron trailing like a shadow of terror, eyes blazing, body coiled for attack, his continuous barking echoing ominous warnings.
The squadron knight, who had been awaiting them with some of his men, raised an eyebrow at the unusual sight.
"What happened to you two out there?" he demanded sharply.
Then, sneering, he added mockingly,
"And now… who is it? The Red Lion again?"
Ahtal replied, "Some wolves tried to attack us, but thank the craftsmen, we survived."
He sighed, muttering, "Wolves?" then grumbled under his breath, "That doesn't matter… Where is the Water of Life and the fruits of paradise?"
Imlas and Ahtal handed the flasks and fruits to one of the knights, who walked forward to take them. After inspecting them, Ahtal muttered nervously, "One of them fell along my way!"
The knight murmured calmly, "Fell?" Then, turning to his men, he said sharply, "Fail in your duty!" He looked back at the two of them, continuing, "And he who fails in his duty is punished severely. Therefore, you two have only two choices: return and retrieve it, or spend the night with the abomination!"
Before Ahtal could respond, the knight cut him off.
"Silence, you dog! I did not grant you a choice!"
He turned to his men and sneered, "And what do you say, old puppies?"
One of them said, "Better he goes back and retrieves it!" Everyone else agreed loudly, "Yes!! Yes!!"
The knight turned back to Ahtal, pointing, "Did you hear the choice?"
Ahtal answered quietly, sweat still streaming down his forehead, "But the Hour of Prosperity is almost over…"
The knight replied coldly, "Then you must hurry!"
Ahtal groaned in despair, "But I'll die before I reach it!"
"Do you not wish to die with honor?" the knight asked.
Ahtal snapped in frustration, "For the sake of a flask?"
"For your duty!" the knight corrected.
At the height of tension surrounding Ahtal and his companion, before the conversation could continue, Imlas momentarily faltered. Shomron lunged like a savage beast at Ahtal, attacking him fiercely. Ahtal stumbled backward, and in the sudden chaos, the dagger he had found in the forest fell. But curiously, Shomron did not target Ahtal with the dagger; he sank his teeth into Ahtal instead.
"Stop that wretch!" shouted the squadron knight.
Shomron was dragged back into his cage, leaving the gleaming dagger on the ground, its brilliance catching the sunlight. The squadron knight's eyes fell on the dagger, drawn to its dark gleam. He signaled to one of his men,
"Bring that thing!"
In that instant, Ahtal shot toward the dagger like an arrow, eyes locked on it as if tethered by an invisible string. He was not alone in the race; one of the knight's men deliberately extended his foot to trip him. Ahtal stumbled and fell, eyes still fixed on the dagger. Only three feet remained—the final symbol of his hope. He struggled, crawling to retrieve it, but hope vanished as the knight's man snatched the dagger and handed it to his master.
Ahtal ground his teeth against the frozen ground.
"Return my dagger!" His voice burned with suppressed fury.
The knight gestured at the dagger, asking with a pointed tone, "And where did you get this dagger?"
Ahtal rose, brushing snow from his clothes, replying sharply,
"It's mine!"
The knight arched an eyebrow, voice sharp as a blade.
"I did not ask 'who owns it,' I asked, where did you acquire it?"
At that moment, Shomron's barking grew louder, echoing off the castle walls. The knight noticed the dog's strange behavior—hysterical barks, intense glares aimed directly at them. Curious, he approached Shomron's cage. The closer he got, the fiercer Shomron's barking became. Circling the cage, the knight first suspected the dog was ill, but he quickly realized Shomron was constantly fixated on him, no matter where he stood.
"Check that dog," he ordered one of his men.
An elderly man cautiously approached, hands extended to feel Shomron's fur for signs of pain or illness. But there was none. The dog's head remained fixed on the knight as if staring beyond him, at something else. The knight glanced quickly at the dagger and suddenly understood—it all made sense. To confirm, he handed the dagger to the old man, calmly instructing,
"Circle the cage, and take this with you."
The man circled, the dagger swaying in his hand. Shomron followed, barking as if some unseen magic bound him to it. The knight examined the dagger, rubbing off dried mud and inhaling its scent. Then he spoke, his voice cold as the blade itself,
"The scent of the forest…!" He fixed Ahtal with an icy stare.
"You got it from the forest, didn't you?"
Ahtal shook his head, attempting to hide his unease.
"No, sir! It fell from me while we were running…"
The knight chuckled softly, dripping with sarcasm,
"No one makes daggers like this here."
"I didn't get it here!" Ahtal insisted.
"Then where?" The knight mocked. "Did the craftsmen deliver it to you?"
Ahtal stammered,
"I've had it since I joined the Bridge…"
The knight's eyes bore into him, unmasking the lie. He stepped closer, voice growing harsher with each step,
"What are you trying to hide from me? Is this the first time you got something like this? Or every time you go there, you come back with treasures hidden in your treacherous pockets?!"
Ahtal remained silent, but his eyes betrayed him. He whispered to himself,
"What have I done?! Damn… damn it… how will I survive this wretch?"
Finally, stammering, he said,
"I… I swear to the craftsmen, it's the first time!"
The knight's voice cut like a blade,
"So you tried to hide it from me?" He turned to one of his men, merciless,
"Throw these two into the dungeon!"
Ahtal's scream tore through the silence, struggling in the men's grip, pleading,
"Please! No! I beg you, Sir Lars! Not the dungeon, please…"
But his pleas vanished into the air, like screams lost in a bottomless valley.