Autumn in Decatry was a season of mists and longing. The sea, which in summer shone like a silver blade, now seemed made of lead, heavy, slow. The seagulls did not cry. The fishermen did not sing. Only the wind, blowing from the north, brought the smell of ice and wet pine.
Andy Decatry sat in his office, his eyes fixed on a letter he was not reading. The paper was crumpled, dirty with fingers that had opened and closed it many times. The broken red wax seal bore the crest of Remadís – the golden lion.
Irina Graylor, seated in the chair by the window, watched the sea.
"Any news of the king?" she asked without turning.
"He is ill." Andy dropped the letter. "Coughing. Fainting spells. The doctors say it is age."
"And the counsellors?"
"They say it is fear. Trussum, the war, the demon lords… the king is no longer young. Fear ages a man."
Irina turned.
"And the succession?"
"Lirius. Elisa. Neither has the majority." Andy scratched his beard. "The nobles remember what Lirius did to the maids. They remember what Elisa did not do to stop him."
"Elisa is more intelligent."
"She is. But intelligence does not rule. Power rules."
Silence settled. Outside, the wind whistled through the cracks in the window.
---
In the capital, King Dizius coughed on his bed of black ivory.
The curtains were drawn. Light entered in thin rays, pale, sickly. The doctors bent over him, murmuring words no one understood. Lirius stood by the door, arms crossed, his face impassive. Elisa, sitting in a chair beside the bed, held her father's hand.
"The kingdom…" Dizius tried to speak, but the coughing stopped him.
"The kingdom is safe, Father," Elisa replied, with a calm that concealed something. "We will take care of it."
"You will take care?" Lirius smiled. "Or you will rule?"
Elisa did not answer. She only squeezed her father's hand tighter.
Dizius closed his eyes. His breathing became lighter, slower.
"The blue‑mind‑destroyer…" he murmured, almost voiceless. "It has returned."
"We know," said Lirius. "The animals are attacking in the south. In Mercius. In Eladir."
"And the people?"
"The people are afraid." Elisa raised her eyes to her brother. "As we are."
Lirius did not answer. He simply left the room, the door closing with a dry snap.
---
In the academy training yard, Alór van Decatry swung his sword at a wooden dummy.
The blows were fast, precise, without hesitation. Sweat ran down his forehead, mixed with the morning dust. The egg, resting on a pile of blankets on a stone bench, pulsed slowly – a purple and red glow that seemed to follow the warrior's movements.
"Again," Alór murmured, starting the sequence again.
The egg trembled. A small crack appeared in the shell – thin, almost imperceptible. Alór did not see it. Or saw it and paid no attention.
---
Ethan was in his room, sitting on the bed, staring at the candle on the nightstand.
The flame flickered.
There was no wind. The window was shut. The curtains were still. Only the flame, which leaned left, then right, as if searching for something.
Ethan reached out his hand.
The flame flickered again. Stronger. The tips of his fingers, a few centimetres from the wick, were cold. But the movement… the movement was his.
"What…" he whispered.
The flame went out.
Ethan sat still. His heart beat fast. His hand trembled.
'It was me', he thought. 'I put it out.'
He lit the candle again – with the lighter, this time. The flame shone, steady, indifferent.
'It was the wind', he lied to himself. 'There is no wind.'
He put the lighter back in his pocket. He did not look at the candle again.
---
Snow.
It had been falling since they crossed the border of Lunos. First light, almost imperceptible – flakes that melted at the touch of skin. Then heavier, denser, until the ground turned white and the horses began to tire.
Zirinos rode at the front, his gold‑and‑blood hair covered by a fur hood. Helena behind him, her golden armour covered with snow, her sword in her hand. Luna, last, pulled her horse with difficulty, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
"How much farther?" asked Helena.
"Days," Zirinos replied. "Or weeks. The snow slows everything."
"And your friend?" Helena pointed at Luna. "Will she hold up?"
"She will." Zirinos did not look back. "She is Linda Lunos's daughter. The cold runs in her veins."
Luna did not answer. She only quickened her pace.
---
The messenger arrived in Decatry at dusk.
He was covered in snow, his horse panting, his face marked by fatigue and fear. Andy received him in the courtyard, Delluzio beside him. Irina watched from the window.
"Duke…" the man knelt, his voice hoarse. "A village. In Lunos. All… all dead."
"Dead how?"
"The bodies in a circle. In the centre… black flowers. Trásserius."
Andy paled.
"Trussum."
"I do not know, Duke. But the symbol… the smell of sulphur… the animals that fled the forest…"
"How many dead?" asked Delluzio.
"All. Men, women, children. Eighty, maybe a hundred."
Silence weighed. The snow fell.
"Zirinos," said Andy. "Where is he?"
"In Lunos, Duke. He went north. To find Trussum."
"To find or to kill?"
"I do not know."
Andy turned. He looked at the window where Irina stood.
"Go," he ordered the messenger. "Rest. Tomorrow I want a written report."
The man left. Andy remained in the courtyard, watching the snow.
'Trussum is in Lunos', he thought. 'And Zirinos is there too.'
'May the gods have mercy on whoever finds the demon first.'