The sun had begun its descent to the west, casting a golden light that crept through the trees. The forest grew quieter, the only sounds now were the rhythmic clopping of hooves and the rustling of leaves stirred by the wind.
Leon rode his horse with the girl he had just rescued seated in front of him. She still looked sullen and shaken, her hands clutching tightly at the crimson cloak Leon had given her to cover herself. From time to time, she drew in a deep breath, as if trying to calm herself after the horror she had endured.
Behind them, Sir Eryk rode with one hand holding the long rope that bound the man they had captured. The man, still naked, staggered clumsily over rocky ground, his body caked in dust and streaked with wounds. Each time Sir Eryk gave the rope a harsh tug, the man cried out in pain but dared not resist.
After a long stretch of silence, Leon finally spoke.
"What is your name?" His voice was gentler than usual.
The girl lifted her head slightly but didn't answer at once. She seemed hesitant, then finally said in a soft voice, "My name is… Erien, my lord."
Leon nodded, etching the name into memory. He glanced briefly in the direction of the old man's corpse they had left behind and said with a tone of mourning, "I'm sorry for your father's death."
Erien slowly shook her head, her expression unchanged. "He wasn't my father," she murmured. "He was my master. I was his slave."
Leon's eyes widened at the revelation. He studied her for a moment longer before asking quietly, "So… you're a slave?"
Erien didn't meet his gaze. She simply bowed her head and replied in a flat tone, "Yes, my lord."
Leon fell silent, mulling over what he had just heard. Thoughts swirled in his head, but before he could say anything else, another question surfaced.
"Do you know who I am?"
Erien looked slightly puzzled. She glanced at him and shook her head faintly. "I only know you're a nobleman, my lord."
Leon smiled faintly but said nothing more. He let her remain in her ignorance—for now—as they continued their journey deeper into the Iris-Dell Forest.
As they ventured further, the atmosphere changed drastically. This forest was unlike any they had passed before. Towering trees loomed like ancient sentinels, their trunks as thick as towers, their branches twisted and suspended like great roots hanging in the air. The leaves were broad and multicolored, a blend of yellow, brown, and streaks of golden-orange, as though sunlight itself had been trapped within them. Fallen leaves spun gently through the air before settling on a floor of mossy earth.
The air here was denser, heavy with the scent of old wood and damp soil. The usual chorus of birds was replaced by an occasional call, drowned out by the whisper of the wind passing through high branches. Every hoofstep echoed in a silence that felt… watchful.
Leon sensed something—not something he could see, but a deeper presence. Something immense was watching them from afar. A low breath, almost too faint to hear, stirred among the trees, like a massive beast sniffing the air.
The prisoner trailing behind began to tremble, his eyes darting left and right, his legs weak. Erien, silent until now, now looked visibly more uneasy. Her hands clutched the cloak tighter around herself, as if hoping for protection from something unseen.
But Leon and Sir Eryk showed no fear at all, as if the presence that loomed over them was just another companion on the road.
Soon, they reached a massive stone jutting from the earth, resisting the embrace of the surrounding tree roots. Its surface was rough, etched with old carvings. Leon and Sir Eryk brought their horses to a halt.
Sir Eryk dismounted first, swiftly tying the prisoner's rope to a nearby tree. The man groaned and struggled, but Eryk yanked the rope hard, sending him sprawling to the ground. He then turned to tie both Leon's horse and his own to a wooden post that clearly had long been used for this purpose.
Meanwhile, Leon stepped closer to the large stone, Erien following, her eyes curious. She reached out, tracing the ancient symbols with delicate fingers.
"What do these say?" she asked, her voice low but filled with wonder.
Leon glanced at her briefly before reading aloud, his voice deep, the syllables flowing smoothly in the language of Atharia.
"Simar rukherin Thazeiros, ikh nifar dous hidras."
He drew a breath and translated: "Simar follows the Thazeiros in life and in death."
Around them, the wind passed through the leaves, as if echoing the solemn weight of those words.
Erien's eyes widened slightly, as if a missing piece had just fallen into place. She now understood who stood before her.
She turned to Leon and, without hesitation, fell to her knees. Her body bent low, almost touching the earth, her voice trembling as she said, "You are the son of King Loran… the Prince… Forgive me for my ignorance, Your Highness."
Leon, clearly not expecting such a reaction, stepped forward and took her hands, helping her to her feet. "That's not necessary, Erien. We're not at court. Stand."
But Erien kept her head bowed, her voice still laced with fear and shame. "Forgive me, Your Highness… I am not worthy to stand before you… I am only a slave…"
Leon sighed and offered a faint smile. "Then I, too, should not be worthy to stand before you. For I am a prince… and you just saved me from my own foolishness."
Erien looked up, confused. "Saved you, Your Highness?"
Leon nodded, his expression solemn, then whispered, "Had I known you were a slave from the start, I would've ordered you to bathe my horse earlier… or perhaps even bathe Sir Eryk."
He glanced sideways with mock mischief.
Sir Eryk, who had been observing in silence, snorted. "I heard that, Your Highness."
Leon chuckled, and at last, Erien—once so tense—let out a small laugh. The fear that had clung to her eyes began to fade.
Leon smiled. "I told you, we're not in the palace," he said, then gestured. "Stand beside Sir Eryk."
Erien frowned slightly, hesitated, then bowed her head. "As you wish, Your Highness." She walked to where Sir Eryk stood a few steps away, still watching their prisoner.
Once she was in place, Leon turned to the great stone before him. His breathing was calm, and his eyes followed the old carvings on its face. He began to chant the inscription aloud.
"Simar rukherin Thazeiros, ikh nifar dous hidras."
Silence.
He repeated it again.
"Simar rukherin Thazeiros, ikh nifar dous hidras."
This time, the wind rose sharply, and from the depths of the forest came the creaking of branches.
Leon spoke it a third time, louder.
"Simar rukherin Thazeiros, ikh nifar dous hidras!"
Suddenly, a roar erupted from the dark woods. It was not a lion's cry, but something deeper, rougher, and far more massive. The sound reverberated through the air, shaking the leaves and sending birds scattering in fright.
The prisoner's face drained of all color. He began to run, forgetting that his hands were still bound. The rope jerked taut, yanking him back, and he collapsed to the ground, shaking with terror.
The horses reared and neighed in panic, straining against their tethers. Sir Eryk moved quickly to calm them, hands gripping the reins tightly. Erien rushed to help, though her eyes kept flicking back to Leon, her heart pounding.
From the darkness of the forest, something began to stir. Its steps were heavy, making the earth tremble beneath each one. Its breath echoed through the trees—deep, resonant, and commanding.
Then, the creature emerged.
A Simar, the legendary giant lion.
Its mane was thick and wild like a blaze of fire, billowing around its massive head. Its body dwarfed even a warhorse—no, it was the size of a great elephant—with powerful muscles rippling beneath its golden fur. Its legs were like the trunks of cedar trees, and from the ends of its paws, razor-sharp claws protruded like daggers. Its eyes glowed with a golden light, brimming with ancient wisdom and raw strength.
The Simar stepped forward, each stride sure and thunderous against the ground.
Leon stood tall, unmoving, as the beast approached.
Behind him, Erien stared wide-eyed, stunned by the sight of a legend walking before her, flesh and blood.
Leon met the Simar's gaze, lifting his chin as his voice rang through the forest with a grin, "Ridrar!"
The massive beast flicked its ears at the sound of its name. It looked at Leon with those golden, luminous eyes, then exhaled deeply before lowering itself to the forest floor, its majestic mane gently swaying as it bowed with quiet devotion.
Leon's smile widened. Nimbly, he leapt onto the creature's massive head, his hand gently caressing the soft fur around its nose. "Still as spoiled as ever, aren't you, Ridrar?" he said warmly. He wrapped his arms around the Simar's great snout, laughing softly as the giant beast nudged him playfully—nearly knocking him over.
Behind them, Sir Eryk crossed his arms and shook his head, remarking to Erien with a hint of jest, "Look at that. He treats the beast like a puppy."
Erien, still awestruck, gave a small, teary smile. Her eyes shimmered with emotion, overwhelmed by the rare and wondrous sight.
Meanwhile, Sir Eryk strode toward the prisoner, still bound to a tree. The man was trembling violently, face pale as death, and when his eyes landed on Ridrar, his legs shook so hard that he lost control of his body. A dark stain spread between his legs—a silent testament to his terror.
Sir Eryk snorted, drawing his dagger. Without a word, he slashed the ropes binding the man's hands. The prisoner looked up, confused and disbelieving, unable to grasp that he was being set free.
With a cold expression and a voice low and edged with menace, Sir Eryk said, lifting his dagger ever so slightly, "What are you waiting for, fool? Run. Save yourself while you still can."
The man swallowed hard, then turned and bolted into the woods, running as fast as his legs would carry him, nearly tripping over the roots in his panic.
Sir Eryk gave a small smirk and muttered to himself, "Or don't."
He sheathed his dagger and turned. With casual ease, he brought two fingers to his lips and whistled—a signal.
At the sound, Leon raised a finger, catching Ridrar's attention, and pointed toward the figure now fleeing in the distance. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke, "Aras, Ridrar. Aras."
For a moment, the forest fell silent. Ridrar lifted his massive head, ears twitching, golden eyes narrowing as he followed Leon's signal. Then, with a thunderous roar, he shattered the stillness—his cry shaking the trees and sending flocks of birds scattering into the sky in a frenzy.
With a single, explosive leap, Ridrar surged forward, his clawed paws tearing into the earth with immense force. The fleeing man looked back—his eyes wide with horror as he saw the monstrous beast barreling toward him. He gasped for air, legs barely keeping him upright as terror gripped his mind.
Ridrar weaved between ancient trees, his massive frame moving with unnatural speed and grace. With each leap, he closed the distance.
In mere seconds, the man felt the shadow of death cast over him—the sound of air slicing as the creature launched itself through the trees.
CRACK!
The impact echoed through the forest as Ridrar crashed onto his back, massive claws pinning him to the earth with brutal force. The man's scream twisted into a shriek of pure agony, his body crumpling beneath the beast's weight. He flailed, desperate, but it was hopeless.
Ridrar lowered his head, jaws opening wide to reveal rows of lethal fangs. Without mercy, he sank his teeth deep into the man's torso. The scream that followed was short and final—cut off by the sickening sound of flesh being torn.
With a savage shake of his head, Ridrar flung the man's lower half to the ground, a mangled heap of viscera and shattered bone. Blood painted the forest floor, and the remains spilled grotesquely among the roots.
Leon stood still, watching without a change in expression. Erien covered her mouth, pale as ash, while Sir Eryk observed in silence—his gaze cold, unflinching, as if he'd seen far worse before.
Ridrar lifted his head and chewed briefly before swallowing the mangled upper half. Blood coated his snout, dark and glistening, and as he licked it clean, he strode proudly back toward his master—leaving behind what little was left of his prey.
The air was thick with the stench of blood. The soil, once dark and damp, now gleamed crimson.
Night had fallen completely over Red-Eriel.
A cold breeze whispered between the stone towers of the castle, slipping through the slightly ajar windows high above. The city, once alive with the clamor of daily toil, now lay silent beneath the darkened sky, broken only by the occasional clatter of boots echoing along the ramparts where the guards made their rounds.
Oil lanterns still burned along the main roads, their dim amber glow flickering upon damp cobblestones. Yet in the farther reaches, far from the heart of the city, darkness had claimed the alleys, cloaking whatever shadows moved within.
Inside the castle, the mood was no different. There were no songs, no laughter—only the heavy hush of a silence so complete it seemed even the air itself dared not breathe.
In King Loran's study, a single lantern cast its glow across the stone walls, painting long, shifting shadows. There, the king stood motionless, a small scroll clutched in one hand—freshly delivered by Lord Roderick. His eyes narrowed slightly as they scanned the message, digesting each word with grim patience.
In a corner of the room, Lord Roderick and Sir Nutrin waited in silence. They did not dare interrupt the king's thoughts, though the tension in the air was unmistakable.
When Loran had finished reading, he did not speak. He remained still, gazing into the flame of the lantern as though searching for an answer hidden beyond the ink on parchment.
Then, without hesitation, he extended his hand toward the fire. The scroll was consumed instantly—its brown hue blackening, glowing red, and then crumbling into ash that drifted to the cold stone floor.
Loran stepped slowly to his desk and sat. His gaze seemed distant, until at last, he exhaled.
Lord Roderick, having held his tongue long enough, finally spoke. "Could this... be related to what the elf told us?"
There was uncertainty in his voice, as though he questioned whether he had any right to utter it at all.
Loran closed his eyes briefly, then replied, his voice heavy. "I do not know."
He rose from his chair, his steps carrying him to the wide window behind the desk. From there, the quiet city of Red-Eriel stretched out beneath the night. Wisps of smoke still curled from a few chimneys, the last signs of wakefulness as the hour grew late.
But the calm did not soothe him.
"What I do know," Loran said, without turning, his voice nearly a whisper, "is that the Snowtrezia must have seen something. Or known something."
He turned back to the room and approached the desk once more. A great map was unfurled across the old wood, displaying the lands under his rule. His fingers traced the marked paths until they stopped upon a single point—the Grand Wall.
His gaze lingered there, sharp and focused, and in a low murmur—less a declaration than a thought spoken aloud—he said, "Something so terrifying they abandoned their post without warning."
Lord Roderick opened his mouth, but no words came. His expression was strained, his eyes flicking restlessly, as though grappling with a thought just beyond reach. His lips parted more than once, but only a frustrated breath escaped.
"But if Mi... Mi... gods, I forget her name," he muttered at last, a trace of exasperation in his voice.
From the shadows of the room, Sir Nutrin raised a brow. He had watched in silence, arms folded, his demeanor calm—yet there was a certain readiness in his eyes, as though he had anticipated this moment.
"Mirienviel," he said, his voice deep and certain.
Lord Roderick turned to him and released a long sigh. "Thank you, Sir Nutrin," he said, then returned his attention to Loran, who remained by the desk. Confusion still clouded his face, as if his thoughts wrestled with words yet unspoken. At last, with a steadier tone, he said, "But if what Mirienviel said is true... if Malakar still lives..."
He fell silent. The name caught in his throat. His fingers clenched the back of a chair, knuckles tight. The very air in the chamber thickened—as though the word Malakar itself carried a weight, a darkness that reached beyond mere memory.
"We must act, Your Majesty," he said at last, his voice low, nearly a whisper, as though fearful it might summon something if spoken too loud.
Loran gave no immediate answer. His eyes were fixed on Lord Roderick, yet his expression was unreadable in the soft lantern light. There was no fear in his face—nor haste. Instead of responding, he walked slowly to a tall bookshelf, filled with old scrolls and weathered tomes. One hand drifted to the wooden edge, as though lost in deeper thought than any conversation could reach.
Then, he turned back toward Lord Roderick and, in a voice calm yet laced with meaning, asked, "Are you afraid, my lord?"
Roderick straightened, as if stung by the question. His eyes flicked, jaw tightened. But there was no falsehood in his face—only the honesty of a man who knew he could not deny what stirred inside him.
"History tells us everything, Your Majesty," he said at last, his voice softer but no less firm.
Loran looked to Sir Nutrin then, studying the knight's face before speaking again. "What say you, Sir Nutrin?"
The knight stepped forward, approaching the desk where the map remained outstretched, its corners weighed down with iron. His eyes followed the mountain ranges, the strategic markings etched in ink. And with a quiet, steady tone, he replied, "Whatever stirs in the south, the Grand Wall still stands between us. I believe our only priority is ensuring the Central Post does not fall to Oceareest."
At those words, Lord Roderick turned sharply to him. There was a subtle tension between them—not hostility, but the kind that arises between men who share the burden of command and differ in their vision of survival.
Loran noticed the tension and offered a faint smirk, stepping closer to the two. "Seems you've found yourself a rival, my lord," he quipped toward Roderick, amusement in his tone.
Roderick exhaled, choosing not to answer the jest. Yet the flicker in his eyes betrayed his displeasure. Sir Nutrin, meanwhile, remained stoic, unmoved by suggestion or ambition. His was the calm of a knight not driven by title, but by duty.
The king turned back to the map, letting his gaze roam across the territories drawn on the old sheepskin. He placed both hands upon the table, pressing his fingers against its surface as he spoke.
"I've let Mirienviel return to Atharia. She has given me her word—if this Malakar is truly rising again, and gains the strength to breach the Grand Wall—though I doubt it—then the Elven host will march."
The room grew heavier with those words. Malakar. Again, the name. No one truly knew if the being was legend or lurking truth—waiting to wake.
Loran looked once more at Lord Roderick, noting the unease that lingered in the man's posture. He smiled faintly, and in a surprising gesture, brushed some dust from Roderick's robe, straightening it with a light but deliberate hand.
"But we must also know why the Snowtrezia left," he said, his tone turning serious once more.
Then he pulled a ring from his finger and handed it to Lord Roderick. It gleamed dully in the lantern light—the engraved lion's head unmistakable upon its surface.
"Send a royal dove to Coldinel, marked with my sigil," he commanded.
Lord Roderick accepted the ring with solemnity, holding it tightly for a moment before bowing his head and saying, "Yes, Your Majesty."