Tension hung thick in the courtyard, heavy as smoke after a battlefield blaze. Knights advanced step by step, boots scraping against worn stone. Torchlight flickered across polished armor and naked steel, casting jagged shadows that twisted like living things along the walls. The air smelled of cold iron, sweat, and the sharp metallic tang of coming violence.
"Where is the princess?" Dorian demanded, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade.
Garon's hand drifted to his hilt. With a soft metallic whisper, Skógrimr slid free. Astrid pushed herself up, brushing dust from her clothes, breath still uneven. Dot stepped forward without hesitation, drawing both blades in one fluid motion. The twin edges sang faintly as they left their sheaths, hungry for the night air.
The knights gripped their swords tighter, knuckles whitening beneath gauntlets. Sweat traced icy paths down their faces. A few swallowed hard, throats bobbing. Their eyes kept darting toward Dot — dark rumors had already poisoned their courage.
"Cuff them," Dorian ordered.
Some knights froze. Others began drawing steel with a harsh scrape. Then, in a blur too fast for mortal eyes to track, a figure flashed before them.
"Good grief!" one of Boldr's sister-wives gasped.
"What are you doing here?" Dorian snarled.
The woman turned toward Dot, her voice calm but edged with steel. "Boldr wants to speak with the boy."
"He won't get the chance," Dorian spat. "The king has ordered his imprisonment. Proceed — and kill her if she interferes."
In the space of a heartbeat she stood before Dorian. One precise finger jabbed into his chest. He crumpled instantly, face twisting with raw fear.
"You've touched the royal advisor," he wheezed. "That alone carries a death penalty."
"You're all just talk and no action," she added, casually twirling a lock of her hair as if the armed men were children.
She turned and walked toward Dot with graceful, predatory steps. "Let's go."
"Get her!" Dorian growled from the ground.
The knights reached for their swords, but one stepped forward, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Boldr has requested to see him. We will honor that request."
"Is that so?" Dorian muttered, pushing himself up with a grimace. He turned sharply and strode away, the knights falling into formation behind him like obedient shadows.
---
Later, deep within the castle, a massive oak door creaked open on ancient hinges. The air inside was thick with the rich scent of aged wine, polished wood, and the faint musk of a large cat. Dot stepped in, boots quiet on the stone floor.
Boldr lounged on a massive carved chair, swirling a goblet of deep crimson wine. One of his sister-wives reclined beside him, fingers gently stroking the sleek striped fur of a tiger that purred contentedly at her feet, golden eyes half-closed.
The woman who had rescued them entered behind Dot. "Arthur, he's here."
"Leave us," Boldr commanded, voice low and stern.
The sister-wife rose with a dramatic sigh. "For real?" she muttered, shooting him a playful glare before gliding out, the tiger padding silently after her.
"What do you want?" Dot asked bluntly, arms crossed.
"Straight to the point, eh?" Boldr replied with a faint smirk. He tilted his head back and drained the last of his ale in one long gulp, then set the empty mug down with a heavy clink.
"I have somewhere I need to be right now," Dot said impatiently. "So are we done wasting time?"
"I heard about the ruckus you caused — the town fire," Boldr continued, studying him closely.
"Yeah… I'll do what I can to make it right," Dot muttered, staring at the floor.
"Too easy to take the blame, huh?" Boldr leaned forward.
"Where's Dren?" Dot asked suddenly.
"It's been a while since I've seen the man. I bet he's drinking ale in some tavern right about now," Boldr chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.
"Of course he is," Dot whispered to himself.
"We're the same, he and I — cowards," Boldr said, expression darkening. "You've heard what my people call me for letting that brat of a nephew rule."
"They call you weak," Dot said flatly.
The words struck Boldr like a physical blow. Shock flashed across his face. His mug slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the table, wine spilling like blood across the wood.
"Weak?" Boldr repeated, voice hoarse.
"For someone as strong as you, I expected better," Dot said quietly, already turning toward the door.
"Brat!" Boldr called out. "Where do you think you're going?"
"To save my friend," Dot replied without turning. "When I'm done with that, I'll come back for your nephew."
"What does the kid have to do with any of this?" Boldr demanded.
"I promised I'd beat him up after I save Yiva," Dot answered simply.
Boldr let out a deep, genuine laugh that echoed off the stone walls.
"From what I've heard, she was probably taken by dark magic," Boldr warned, tone turning grave. "As you are now, you're not strong enough to face that kind of power. You'll only get more people killed."
"I'm stronger than I was before," Dot shot back. "Don't underestimate me."
"Strong?" Boldr echoed, voice dropping.
A flash of memory crossed his mind — himself and his brother years ago, blades clashing under the sun, wide smiles splitting their faces with the pure thrill of battle.
Boldr leaned forward, eyes intense.
"What does it mean to be strong, brat?"
Dot fell into a long silence. His eyes grew distant. A hollow, bitter chuckle escaped his lips — one that never reached his eyes.
"…Strong?"
He looked down at his hands, slowly clenching them into fists until the knuckles turned white.
"I used to think real strength was about power… speed… being invincible."
His voice dropped, raw and painfully quiet.
"But when it mattered most… I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough."
He swallowed hard, jaw tight.
"She's gone now.
And I'm still here."
Dot finally lifted his gaze, eyes sharp with lingering pain and quiet defiance.
"If being strong means protecting what matters… then I'm not strong."
His fists trembled slightly.
"Maybe it's waking up every day and choosing to keep fighting anyway… not because you believe you can protect everyone, but because quitting would make their deaths mean even less."
He paused, voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't know if I have that kind of strength yet.
But if that's what it takes… then I guess I'm still trying to figure out how to be strong."
Boldr sat stunned, the weight of the boy's words hanging heavy in the air.
Dot turned and walked out. The heavy door shut behind him with a final, resonant thud.
---
Outside the palace, the night air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine resin and distant rain.
"Any clue on finding her?" Garon asked.
"I'm sure we will," Dot replied.
Garon's gaze shifted past him. Dot turned to see Astrid approaching through the torchlight.
He stepped forward, voice cold. "What do you want?"
"I know how to find her," Astrid said.
Those simple words sent a small, fragile wave of relief through Dot's chest.
---
Night had fallen completely when Cottage arrived on horseback, leading two additional horses. The man stopped between Dot and Garon.
"Here are the other horses. Be free to—"
Before he could finish, Garon and Dot had already swung into the saddles with practiced ease.
"This saddle is plain weak. My sword needs space," Garon grumbled, adjusting Skógrimr.
"Be grateful, you jerk. You get to ride one of the finest horses in Thornhold," Cottage retorted.
The local smith arrived with Robert and Mira to see them off. Dot dismounted and approached the children, gently patting both their heads. The familiar warmth of their hair brought a fleeting comfort.
"Long time no see," Dot said softly.
Mira clutched the front of his shirt tightly, small fingers trembling.
"Promise you'll bring Yiva back," she whispered, eyes glistening.
Dot knelt to her level. "I will. And we'll come back for you too."
"Here — take these to hold your new weapons," the smith said, offering a sturdy pair of sheaths.
"Thanks," Dot replied with a nod.
Astrid finally emerged from the shadows. "Let's go."
Dot mounted his horse and reached out a hand. Astrid swung up behind him, wrapping her arms securely around his waist. Cottage and Garon followed close behind as the group rode away, the rhythmic thud of hooves echoing into the night.
---
**Flashback**
Earlier that evening, the four of them had gathered around a wooden table in a quiet corner. The air carried the warm scent of ale and roasted meat.
"Witch?" Dot had asked, leaning forward.
"Witches were mages who performed forbidden spells and were cast out of Hidenheim," Astrid explained. "From the encounter, I'm certain the person we saw was a witch."
"How do we find her?" Dot pressed.
"I know someone who has associated with one before — a former friend to the throne. He was a jester," Astrid added.
"We just have to find him, then," Cottage said.
"Something felt strange about Yiva," Astrid continued, voice lowering. "I felt this cold presence around her…"
"Could be the witch," Cottage suggested.
Garon, who had remained quiet, finally spoke. "Not the witch. Yiva's been blessed with abilities from birth. After an encounter around seventeen years ago, there was no way to contain her powers. My father had a mage from Hidenheim seal them. What you felt was probably her power leaking again."
"There's no time to waste, then," Dot said, determination hardening his features. "Let's find the jester and save Yiva."
Present
The gang rode away from Thornhold's towering gates with grim determination, the wind whipping through their cloaks as the warm lights of the city slowly faded behind them.
---
Somewhere deep within the palace, in the opulent throne room, Richard awakened with a groan, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Ivar sat casually on the throne, legs crossed, exuding cold authority.
Richard spat out a mouthful of blood, glaring upward with defiance.
"You're no king. Rot in hell," he snarled.
"I told you I'd have your head," Ivar replied with a cruel smile. He gave a slight signal to a nearby knight.
*Slash.*
Richard's head rolled across the polished marble floor with a sickening wet thud, leaving a bright crimson trail in its wake.
Dorian entered moments later, his steps measured.
"My sister left with them, did she not?" Ivar asked.
"Yes, sire. Should we chase after them?" Dorian inquired.
"No," Ivar said, his voice dripping with menace. "Continue the preparations. We strike Greenwood soon."
End of Chapter