The first light of dawn crept over the rooftops of Toleem, spilling faint gold into the quiet streets. Arthus stirred from his uneasy sleep long before the city awoke. The prophecy still lingered in his thoughts, heavy and insistent, like a shadow that refused to be cast aside. No matter how hard he had tried to convince Elena—and himself—that it was nothing more than a dream, the words of the figure haunted him. Fifteen years. A doom foretold.
He rose from bed and gathered his things with deliberate care. His hands worked methodically, though his mind remained restless. He packed water and dried rations, a small cloth roll of herbs Elena had prepared, a knife with a worn handle, and a spare tunic. The old leather bag strained under the weight, but he fastened it shut firmly.
Outside, the morning was cool, the air damp with lingering mist. He lingered for a moment at the doorway of his home, casting one last glance toward the small garden Elena had tended, where Marvin would one day play when he was older. His heart tightened. He wanted to remain, to hold his son close, to pretend the world beyond his home did not exist. But answers would not come from silence. Answers lay on Ser Ritchard’s estate.
Toleem was not just a city, but one of the great states of Santonie in Farmonia. The Santorian royal family had long held dominion over Farmonia, their reign stretching back through countless generations. Their control was so absolute that few even remembered how or when it had begun. Most of their kin were of noble blood, though every now and then a new noble would rise from the ranks of the army, or by accomplishing some great deed that shook the country’s destiny.
Farmonia itself was unlike any other land. It was a realm where law and order still held sway, a fragile beacon of structure in a continent that had long descended into chaos. To the east lay Lyria, a wild land riddled with militias and pirates, where lawless men carved out fleeting dominions. It was a haven for criminals fleeing Farmonia’s justice, and from its shores they often launched raids against Farmonia’s borders, hungering for its fertile lands and resources.
To the west stretched the lands of shadow and rumor—the domain of the witches. None had seen them for centuries, yet their legend remained unbroken. It was whispered they had slain the very first king, the one who had bound Farmonia under law and brought peace. The witches had despised him for ending the sacrifices once made in their name. They had thrived on fear, on blood, and on devotion, and when the people turned to order, their dominion crumbled. But though unseen, their presence lingered in every story told by firelight, every warning passed from elder to child.
North and west, beyond the reach of cities and kingdoms, lay only mountains and desert. Those who ventured far into those places rarely returned.
Arthus knew all of this well. The shape of his world was carved into him from childhood. And now, with each step away from home, he felt the weight of that world pressing down on him.
The journey to Ser Ritchard’s estate was not an easy one. On foot, it would take nearly three days. With a horse, perhaps a day and a half, but Arthus had chosen not to take the only horse they owned. That animal was too precious, needed for plowing the fields and hauling wood. To exhaust it on a personal journey would be folly. So Arthus walked, his pack heavy on his back, the road stretching long before him.
The first day passed without incident. The road was rough in places, winding through small clusters of trees and rising into stony paths. Arthus kept his eyes open for travelers, but he encountered few. The occasional farmer passed with carts, offering polite greetings, but none lingered. By evening, when the sun began its slow descent, he found a suitable place to rest—an outcropping of rock that shielded him from the wind. He lit a small fire, ate sparingly, and slept with his back to the stone, his knife within reach.
It was the second morning when unease returned.
Arthus woke to find the mountain cliffs around him smothered in thick fog. The air was damp, clinging to his skin, and the world seemed to shrink until only the ground beneath his feet remained visible. He rose slowly, shaking the stiffness from his limbs, but his eyes lingered on the fog. It was not ordinary mist. Something about it pressed against his memory, drawing forth an old recollection he had nearly forgotten.
He was eleven years old again, a boy walking beside his father. It had been his first journey to Ser Ritchard’s estate, for in Farmonia, the age of eleven marked the beginning of a boy’s education in governance. From that age until eighteen, a son learned under his father’s watch, preparing for the day he would take up the mantle of responsibility. Arthus remembered that journey vividly—the weight of excitement in his chest, the pride in his father’s voice, the strangeness of leaving home for something greater.
But he also remembered the fog. The same fog that now curled around him had filled the valleys then, dense and impenetrable. And in that fog, he had seen it.
The shadow.
The same shadow he had seen in his dream only days ago. It had stood in the distance, its form faint but undeniable. At the time, he had brushed it off, a trick of the eyes brought on by exhaustion. His father had assured him it was nothing, that long journeys often made the mind imagine things that were not there. And so he had dismissed it, burying the memory beneath years of labor and life.
But now it returned, rising fresh and sharp, and the weight of dread pressed down on him.
For as he peered into the fog, he saw it again.
The shadow stood in the corner of his vision, still and silent. It did not approach him this time. It did not laugh, did not speak. only watched it. Its presence alone was enough to set his skin crawling, his heart pounding.
Arthus gritted his teeth and tore his gaze away. He would not falter now. Whatever this figure was, whatever prophecy it bore, he would not allow it to drive him into madness. He would reach Ser Ritchard. He would find answers.
He tightened the straps of his pack and began to walk. Each step was heavy, but his determination grew sharper with every pace. The shadow remained where it was, swallowed slowly by the fog, until at last it was gone.
Yet Arthus did not relax. He knew now that the dream had not been merely a dream. The shadow was real, its warnings not so easily dismissed. And so he pressed forward, his only hope fixed on Ser Ritchard and the knowledge waiting within those ancient halls.