Date: August 14, 542 After the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable
Four weeks had flown by like a single day. Kazai hadn't noticed the days pass, filled as they were with reports, orders, and endless meetings. He barely slept—sleep had become a luxury he could only afford for a few hours a day. The Kingdom demanded his attention, and he gave it in full.
The morning dawned gloomy. Low clouds hung over the swamp, and a fine, nasty drizzle had been falling since sunrise, turning the streets of the Kingdom of the Rejected into a grey, slippery ribbon. Water streamed down the black stones of the pavement, pooling in puddles that reflected the pale, lifeless sky. The cold, damp wind tugged at the standards bearing the Kingdom's symbol—crossed swords within a broken circle—and they flapped like the wings of wounded birds.
Kazai stood at the gates, a black traveling cloak thrown over his shoulders. Underneath was a simple but sturdy travel armor of black leather, reinforced with steel plates. At his hip hung a sword—straight, long, with a hilt wrapped in black leather. His black hair was tied back in a low tail to keep it out of his way during the journey. He looked at the buildings that had become his creations—the longhouses, the hospital, the barracks, the academy. All of this had been raised by his order, and all of it now remained in the care of those he trusted.
Behind him, at a respectful distance, stood those who had survived the purge. Ten people—councilors, warlords, governors. Their faces were unreadable, but tension showed in their eyes. No one knew if the King would return. And no one dared to ask. They stood in the rain, without cover, without hiding—that would have been disrespectful. Water streamed down their faces, down their armor, down their fine clothes, but no one moved.
Hlis stood closest. His old cloak was soaked through, but he seemed to notice neither the rain nor the cold. His eyes—black, deep—were fixed on Kazai's back. He hadn't slept the last two nights, checking equipment, preparing provisions, rechecking the maps the Seer had given. He had done everything he could. And now all that remained was to wait.
"Your majesty," Hlis said quietly, stepping forward. His voice was hoarse—either from a cold or from tension. "Allow me to…"
"No," Kazai interrupted without turning. His voice was calm, but there was steel in it that could not be bent. "You're staying, Hlis. That's not up for discussion."
Hlis clenched his jaw. The muscles bulged beneath his skin, sharp, predatory shadows forming on his cheekbones. But he remained silent. He knew arguing was pointless. Kazai made his own decisions, and nothing could change his mind.
"You need me there," Hlis tried again. "The road is dangerous, your majesty. Spirits, beasts, perhaps even those who will want to exploit any weakness of yours…"
"My weakness?" Kazai turned slowly, and his pale, almost transparent eyes met those of the old Adept. "You think me weak, Hlis?"
"No, your majesty." Hlis lowered his gaze. "But even the strongest can fall if there are too many enemies. And I can guard your back."
"You can guard the back of the Kingdom," Kazai cut him off. "That's more important. You're needed here, Hlis. Without you, everything will crumble. Without me—it might endure."
He paused, letting his words sink in. The rain was falling harder now, drumming on hoods, armor, and stone slabs.
"I am leaving," Kazai said, now addressing everyone. "Perhaps for a month. Perhaps for a year. Perhaps forever. But if I don't return—you know what to do. The Kingdom must not fall. You will continue to build. You will continue to strengthen our power. You will continue to prepare for the war that is inevitable."
The councilors were silent. Their faces were pale, and only in their eyes could one read what they dared not speak aloud. Fear. Hope. Devotion. All of it mixed together.
"We understand, your majesty," one of them replied, an old warrior with a grey beard and a scar across his entire cheek. His voice was steady, but bitterness lingered in it.
Kazai nodded and shifted his gaze to Hlis.
"You are responsible for everything," he said quietly, so only the old Adept could hear. "For the academy, for the barracks, for the longhouses. And for ensuring that no one dares to raise their head in my absence."
"I understand, your majesty," Hlis replied, and his voice wavered. "But if you don't return…"
"If I don't return, it means I didn't deserve to," Kazai interrupted. "And that means the Kingdom shouldn't depend on me."
He paused, looking into the old warrior's eyes. There was no doubt in his gaze. Only cold, icy certainty.
The old Adept wanted to say something more but stopped himself. He simply bowed—low, respectfully, as befits a sword seeing off its master. His back, so straight just recently, bent for an instant, and that gesture contained more than any words ever could.
Kazai approached the horse—a black mare with a long, glossy mane, gifted to him by one of the northern clans. She was spirited, strong, and only Kazai could handle her. He vaulted easily into the saddle, adjusted his cloak, and froze for a moment, sweeping his gaze over the Kingdom of the Rejected.
The rain lashed his face, but he didn't squint. He looked at the grey walls, at the black spires, at the smoke rising from the chimneys. And in his chest, a strange, unfamiliar feeling stirred—not pride, no. Something else. Perhaps responsibility. Perhaps attachment.
*I built this,* he thought. *Out of filth, out of fear, out of ash. And I will return to make this place the greatest kingdom in the world.*
He pulled on the reins. The horse, snorting, moved forward. Hooves thudded dully on the wet earth, and that sound, measured and heavy, accompanied him to the very edge of the Dead Swamp.
Hlis stood at the gates until the figure of the King vanished into the grey haze. His hands, clenched into fists, trembled—not from cold, but from tension. He stared into the void, and in his black, deep eyes, a fire burned.
"Come back, your majesty," he whispered.
No one answered. Only the cold, damp wind rustled in the standards of the Kingdom of the Rejected. And only the fine, nasty rain drummed on the stones, washing away footprints that no one could ever read again.