Nathan stepped through the white door — no handles, no signs, not even a hint of where it might lead.
There was no light behind it. No walls. No space.
And then — suddenly — he was outside.
Damp air hit his face. A light rain fell from the dark sky, like the heavens were mourning something he couldn't even name. This wasn't the street he had entered from. But he didn't care.
He felt hollow. Not angry. Not afraid — just a dull, heavy disappointment.
He'd come for answers. All he got was another riddle.
And more and more, he doubted that secret meeting, the one with the round table, had anything to do with his brother's death.
He lowered his head, pulled up his hood, and walked along the wet cobblestones without looking back.
The tavern "The Thorned Belt" greeted him with worn signs and the familiar scent of spilled wine, cheap stew, and soaked cloaks. Not a place for those wearing family rings. But it was exactly where he needed to be.
Even aristocrats have the right to be human on nights like this.
He descended to the main floor, passed a few loud tables, and stopped at the bar.
"One strong moonberry drink," he said shortly, tossing a gold coin onto the counter.
The bartender — a tall man with eyes that had seen too much — looked at him like he was a ghost. But he said nothing. Just quietly reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle, poured the thick, nearly black liquid into a rough cup, and placed it in front of him.
"Don't see folks like you here every day," he muttered, settling onto the stool beside him.
"Appreciate the compliment," Nathan replied dryly, eyes still fixed on the drink.
"The coin's real. Too real. Polished like it belongs in a showcase. Only the highborn carry ones like this... What brings you to a dump like this, milord?"
He didn't answer. Just took a sip.
And then a voice rang out behind him:
"Well, look what we've got here. A bird from the high skies!"
A hand with dirty nails landed on his shoulder. Nathan slowly turned his head. A man stood behind him — broken nose, a smile with no warmth. Four more men lingered nearby.
"You like walking alone, I see. Just like us," the man said, dropping onto the stool beside him uninvited. The others moved closer.
Nathan stayed silent.
"No guards, no servants... Bet your pockets are stuffed with gold — enough for the next three years. Sounds like it's time for us to get rich, huh boys?"
"He's no miracle-worker," one of them whispered, eyeing Nathan's sword. "Too scrawny."
The word miracle-worker stung. He knew what it meant. People with gifts. Powers that made them demi-gods. Rulers. Order-wielders.
He could have been one of them too. But if he'd ever dared to reveal himself, his own brothers would've burned him alive. Only one could inherit the power. And he had never been the favorite.
So he chose silence. The couch. A pointless life lived in shadow.
A stranger's hand slipped into his pocket.
"Well, well! Our little swan brought us a pouch full of presents!"
The crowd by the bar was already buzzing. Someone reached for a knife. Someone else grinned. The bartender stepped back a few paces in silence.
He knew exactly how this might end.
But Nathan… simply finished his drink. Drained the cup to the bottom. Then slowly pushed back the stool, its legs scraping against the floor, and stood up.
"I have an offer," he said. His voice was quiet, but clear.
A pause. A few seconds of silence. Those who were ready to strike froze in place.
"I need people. Strong ones. Desperate ones. The kind who aren't afraid to go where no one comes back from."
He pulled out another coin and placed it on the counter.
"The Dark Island. I'm putting together an expedition. I'll pay ten gold coins to each of you — just for joining. And if we return... you'll get a hundred."
The bartender flinched. A few people exchanged glances.
"You're insane," someone breathed. "The Dark Island? You want to go there on purpose?"
"He's either bluffing... or he's one of the few who can actually make it there," another muttered, peering into Nathan's face.
The man with the broken nose slowly took his hand off Nathan's shoulder.
"How many people you need?" he asked. "Plenty of tough guys around here... just not all of 'em willing to walk into hell, even for a hundred coins."
Nathan gave a faint smirk.
"I don't care how many of you come. What matters is how long you'll last."
And in that moment, the tavern fell so silent, you could hear the rain sliding down the window outside.
Some quietly slid their daggers back into their sheaths and returned to their mugs. Others stepped away, suddenly losing all interest in the idea. But no one tried to touch Nathan again.
The man who'd first grabbed him by the neck held out his hand.
"Grammy. I'll go with you."
"I'm in too," said another, rising to his feet.
"Me as well."
Voices came from all sides. Volunteers — more than he expected. Far more. But Nathan didn't care. He wasn't here to thank anyone or talk them out of it. He just gave a silent nod.
He knew what he wanted.
In the corner of the tavern, standing in the shadows, was Vale — his personal knight. Quiet. Dangerous. His face like a mask — no surprise, no judgment. Just cold observation.
He tilted his head slightly and murmured under his breath:
"Jonathan will want to hear about these... new ambitions."
Then he moved forward at a calm pace, ready to escort Nathan back to the castle.
A written contract was hastily drawn up right there in the tavern. The ink was still wet, the paper rough and uneven — but the signatures were there. It was enough. For now.
People didn't need trust — just the promise of gold.
The next step was simple: reach the Dark Island.
---
He was already being waited for at the castle gates.
Of course they were waiting.
"Good evening, Nathan," came a cold voice.
He turned — and saw Jonathan, his brother. Nineteen years old, slender build, calm smile. One of the miracle-workers, but not a fighter. He didn't fight for the inheritance — he fought for Reynold's side. One of the other brothers.
"You really are an idiot," Jonathan added. "Don't you have anything better to do? The Dark Island? Seriously?"
Nathan didn't respond right away. He just smiled — light, mocking.
"Go to hell, Jonathan. Ask your dogs your questions, not me."
He moved to walk past — but one of Jonathan's knights stepped in front of him. A wall of steel.
Vale didn't interfere. His face stayed just as blank as ever. He was observing.
"You do have a talent for pissing people off," Nathan muttered.
"Call it off. Tear up those pitiful contracts and we'll pretend it never happened," Jonathan said. His voice was sharper now. "You don't want trouble, do you?"
They've lost it, Nathan thought. This is my family. One's a hypocrite, the other a butcher. The only decent brother's gone — and with him, everything that tied me to this place.
He turned to leave… and again — blocked. Another man stood in his way.
This time it was Vale.
He didn't raise a weapon. He simply stood there. And that was enough.
Nathan clenched his teeth.
"I'll decide for myself."
His voice was firm.
He stepped forward — and dropped to his knees.
The blow was invisible. Pressure. Magic? Or just fear, built up over years?
"Don't get cocky, Nathan," came a voice from above him. "Times are bad enough already. And now you're making it worse. One day. I'll give you one day to change your mind. After that — don't come crying."
Someone scuffed the dust at his feet. Pebbles scattered over his cloak. A spit without spitting.
Their footsteps faded. Only Vale remained. He no longer blocked the way. Just stood there.
Nathan slowly got to his feet.
He didn't brush off the dust.
Didn't look back.
And kept walking.
---
At that same moment, in the tavern, near the door with the copper handle — the one people used when calling for service — a girl in a grey cloak was sitting quietly. She stared at the wall. The light from a lantern fell into her eyes, and it looked like something restless lived within them.
"It's been half a day already…" she whispered. "Where did he go…?"