Date: June 30, 542 After the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable
Hlis walked along a narrow path paved with bones, leading to the Seer's hut. The evening fog, thick and sticky, was already rising from the swamps, shrouding the buildings of the Kingdom of the Rejected in a ghostly veil. Somewhere behind him came the shouts of builders finishing the barracks, the clang of metal from new forges, the occasional calls of sentries. The kingdom was alive. It was breathing. It was growing—right before his eyes, out of filth and ash.
Hlis did not hurry. He walked steadily, his thoughts as heavy as the lead plates on his old armor.
*The Kingdom of the Rejected,* he mused. *A bold name. Or a mad one. Time will tell.*
He knew Kazai's speech would become legend—or curse. The elders would retreat to their corners and whisper about the tyrant who dared destroy their legacy. But none of them would raise a sword. Because those who could were already in the ground. Hlis himself had helped put them there.
He recalled how, a few weeks ago, Kazai had simply looked at one of the elders—one who had dared to publicly question his right to lead the Tribe. And the elder… died. Simply collapsed, choking on his own blood, his eyes melting out of their sockets. No one knew exactly what Kazai had done. No one asked.
Hlis didn't ask either. He had played his own part in that.
The Seer's hut stood apart, right at the edge of the swamp, where the ground was soft, almost alive. The old man loved silence. Or perhaps he feared that his decrepit body couldn't endure proximity to the young and strong.
Hlis pushed open the door—old, crooked, but still solid—and stepped inside.
It was dark within. Only a few embers in the hearth cast crimson reflections on the walls, hung with dried herbs and bones. The Seer sat on a low bench, wrapped in old, tattered hides. His face, carved with wrinkles, resembled the bark of an ancient tree, and his eyes, faded, nearly white, stared into the fire. Of his once-mighty spirit—he had been a Herald at his peak—only a shadow remained. Now his power barely matched the rank of Pillar, and that only with effort.
"You came," the Seer said without raising his head.
"You called," Hlis replied, sitting down across from him.
The old man chuckled. There was no mirth in it.
"I did. Sit, old hound. Tell me about our King."
"He is magnificent," Hlis said, and in his usually restrained voice, pride swelled. "He has become what we wanted him to be. Strong. Fearless. Merciless to enemies and demanding of those who serve him faithfully."
"And what did he say today?"
"What needed to be said. The Cursed Tribe is dead. Long live the Kingdom of the Rejected."
The Seer nodded. His white eyes deepened, darkened for a moment.
"I saw this. Many years ago. In the vision that brought me to you."
Hlis fell silent. He knew what was coming. Every time he visited the Seer, the old man made him remember. The past. That very night when Hlis's life changed forever.
"Remember," the Seer said quietly. "How you found our King."
---
The memory was vivid, like a lightning strike.
Hlis had been a little over forty then. A warrior with years of wandering behind him, hundreds of slain enemies, and dozens of betrayed allies. His rank of Adept opened the doors of any house, any fortress, any army. He could have served emperors. He could have led a mercenary company and died in gold and silk. He could have simply vanished into the swamps and lived out his days in peace.
Instead, he ventured to a cursed village on the edge of the Dead Swamp, because some decrepit seer had told him: "Your king awaits you there."
"I thought you were mad," Hlis told the Seer that long-ago evening, looking at the map the old man had drawn on a scrap of hide. "What do I need a king for? I am my own king."
"You are a warrior," the Seer replied. "Warriors live for battle. But the true battle is yet to come. And you will need someone to lead. Someone who is not afraid to gaze into the abyss."
Hlis had only smirked. But he went. Not because he believed, but because he had no other reason to stay.
He reached the village after three days. And he was too late.
The village was burning. Not entirely—only the outskirts—but the smoke was so thick that Hlis coughed as he entered the gates. Corpses lay everywhere—men, women, elders. Some killed by swords, some hacked with axes, some simply trampled. Mercenaries. Professionals.
Hlis walked through the ash, stepping over bodies, feeling nothing but a dull irritation.
*Wasted trip,* he thought.
And then he heard a cry.
A child's. Desperate. It came from a half-ruined house at the end of the street. Hlis quickened his pace. He kicked in the door and saw them.
Two children. A boy with black hair and eyes that already knew no fear. And a girl—younger, with red hair, pressed against the boy as if he were her only protection.
Around them, four mercenaries. Armed with swords, wearing chainmail, their faces cold and indifferent.
"Two more," one said. "Finish them."
The boy stepped forward. He shielded the girl with his body.
"Don't come closer," he said. His voice was quiet, but held no fear. Only a cold, ancient rage that could not have belonged to a child.
The mercenary laughed and raised his sword.
And then something happened that Hlis never forgot, and would never forget.
Blood began to flow from the boy's eyes. From his nose as well. He collapsed to his knees, his body beginning to tremble. And behind him, space tore open. Black, pulsing, containing nothing but two enormous eyes. They looked at the mercenaries with such calm, such absolute, fathomless authority, that even Hlis, an Adept who had seen much, felt a chill run down his spine.
The mercenaries cried out. Some stumbled back, one stepped forward. And in that same instant, all four fell.
Their bodies were not slashed or pierced. They were crushed. As if an invisible press had come down upon them, and the men—alive and breathing just a second before—turned into meat cubes, dripping blood. Even their swords. Even their chainmail.
Hlis stared at this, and a single thought pulsed in his head: *What kind of demon is this?*
The boy lost consciousness. The red-haired girl continued to cling to him, not even glancing at the dead mercenaries.
Hlis approached the children. He carefully moved the girl aside, and lifted the boy into his arms. He was light, almost weightless.
*You,* Hlis thought, looking at his pale, blood-streaked face, *you are my king?*
---
The memory faded. Hlis was once again sitting in the Seer's hut, staring at the dying embers in the hearth. The old man did not rush him.
"You came for him," the Seer said. "And you have not regretted it."
"Not once," Hlis answered quietly. "I have watched him grow. His power strengthen. Those who once looked down on him now look up. I am proud of him. As proud as a father would be, if I had a son."
"He is not your son," the Seer noted. "He is your king. And you must remember that."
"I remember," Hlis said firmly. "I always remember."
The Seer regarded him for a long moment with his white, faded eyes. Then nodded.
"I will speak with his majesty soon," he said. "A journey awaits him. A dangerous journey. To where the strongest of our people once perished."
"To the place from which no one returns?" Hlis asked, and his voice wavered.
"From which almost no one returns," the Seer corrected. "He has a chance. Small, but a chance."
Hlis said nothing. He knew the old man was right.
"I won't try to stop him," he said at last. "But if he asks me to go with him…"
"He won't ask," the Seer interrupted. "And you know why."
Hlis rose. His old body, still sturdy but no longer as fast as it once was, groaned from the long crouch.
He turned and left the hut without a farewell.
The Seer remained by the hearth, gazing at the glowing embers.
"You've already grown attached, old hound," he whispered into the silence. "Don't let him grow attached to you in return. In the future, you may become nothing but a burden to him."
The fire crackled softly. The Seer closed his eyes.
"I will not become a burden to my King," Hlis said, and his eyes, black and deep, burned with resolve. "Not today, nor ever in the future."