Long ago, before the kingdom of Somaria was even a thought, before the names of Arthus, Elena, or Marvin were spoken, the land was broken and violent. It was not one people, but many scattered villages locked in endless struggle. There were no kings, no laws—only chiefs who held power until someone stronger took it. People fought for land, for water, for food, even for pride. Life was survival and nothing more.
One of these small villages was called Farmonia. Its chief was Arrakis. He was respected for his fairness and for the battles he had fought, but he and his wife were childless. Years passed. Their hair turned gray. Many whispered that the gods had closed his line, and that Farmonia would fade when he died. But then, when hope was nearly gone, his wife bore a son.
The people of Farmonia called it a miracle. Arrakis saw it as a sign. That night, he gathered everyone beneath the great oak tree in the center of the village. Torches burned. The people waited in silence. Arrakis stood with the child in his arms and lifted him high.
“People of Farmonia,” he said. “You know me. You knew my father before me. We have lived together, fought together, and buried our dead together. But survival is not enough.
“Last night, I dreamed of Farmonia future—this land united, hunger ended, wars forgotten. A kingdom that shines as a beacon of light. That is our destiny. This boy, my son, is the sign of its beginning. Tomorrow, we start.”
At first, no one spoke. The villagers looked at each other, unsure. Then an old man stepped forward. He leaned on his staff but his voice was strong.
“I will follow Arrakis to death. I know him. I knew his father. I trust him with my life. How many times has he saved us from raiders? How many times has he stood when others ran?”
Another villager raised his sword. “I will follow!” Then another. Soon voices rose one by one until the entire village roared, raising their spears high. The dream of unity had become real in their hearts.
The next morning, Arrakis sent envoys to nearby villages. His message was clear: Join us, or face Farmonia’s wrath. Most hesitated. Some mocked him. But a few accepted. With them, Arrakis built an army of five thousand men—archers, riders, and swordsmen.
The wars began.
Year after year, Arrakis led campaigns across Somaria. Some villages surrendered willingly, tired of endless fighting. Others resisted and were destroyed. The land ran with blood, but Farmonia grew stronger.
Yet not everyone bent the knee. Some villages fled west, into the dark forests and mountains. They carried hatred with them. In those wild lands they turned to a man who had always lived alone in the woods, a strange shaman no one dared approach. Parents warned children not to wander near him. His hut stood deep among twisted trees, smoke rising from it, and all avoided him.
But desperation broke their fear. They sought him out.
The shaman welcomed them. “The god of darkness will give you strength,” he whispered. “But blood must be paid.”
At first, they gave animals. Soon they gave people. Men, women, and children disappeared into his rituals. One night, beneath a sky without stars, a great sacrifice was made. Blood soaked the ground. The air grew heavy and cold. From the shadows came figures no longer human. Their faces were flawless and beautiful, but their touch brought death. These became thewitches of Rafia.
Fear spread quickly. Hunters whispered of figures that walked in the forests at night. Families vanished from their homes. Even in Farmonia, people spoke of the witches in hushed tones.
After twenty years of war, Arrakis had nearly united the land. Old and weary, he gave the throne to his son,Mancor, who became the first King of Farmonia. Arrakis retired, ready to die in peace.
King Mancor ruled with determination. He made laws, built roads, and bound the land together. But he could not conquer the west. His soldiers feared the witches of Rafia. After long debates with his generals, Mancor declared a new law: all sacrifices to the witches were forbidden. Any who broke it would be put to death.
For five years, the law held. Then the witches struck in fury. Villages near the border vanished in fog. Hunters returned blind. Scouts rode to Mancor, pale and trembling.
“The witches are coming,” they said. “Not as whispers. Not as shadows. They come with an army.”
Mancor called his banners. Soldiers gathered on the northern plains, where snow lay thick and the wind cut sharp. Among his commanders wasPortos, a young general who had risen to command at only seventeen. His men loved him. They followed him as if he were their brother.
On the eve of battle, Mancor walked the camp. Fires burned. Men whispered their fears.
“Can steel even touch shadows?” one asked quietly.
“Not by itself,” Mancor answered. “But tomorrow we will not face them empty-handed.”
At the edge of camp, shamans waited. They brought reindeer, holy animals never hunted. Their blood was mixed with the shamans’ own, and with herbs burned in fire. With the mixture, the shamans marked each soldier’s brow, sword, and hands.
One shaman whispered to Mancor, “We do not know if this will work.”
“It will,” Mancor said. “Because I will make it work.”
That night, he addressed his men. “Tomorrow we face shadows. If you are afraid, stand near me. If you falter, stand near Portos. If you fall, another will take your place. We fight not for glory, but for our homes, our children, and our land. Farmonia does not bow to shadows.”
The next morning, the witches appeared. At first they looked like cloaked figures. Then their shapes twisted into flawless faces and bodies of smoke. Their voices carried across the snow, whispering lies.
The horns blew. Arrows rained down. The soldiers watched in horror as the arrows passed harmlessly through the witches.
“Useless!” a man shouted. Panic began to spread.
Then Mancor spurred his horse. He rode straight at the enemy. His sword, marked with reindeer blood, struck the first shadow. It shrieked and dissolved into mist.
“Follow the king!” voices cried.
The army surged forward. Blades clashed with shadows. The witches fought back with illusions—dead mothers, lost children, voices calling out. Some men faltered.
Portos shouted, “Stay with me! Look at me, not at them! Push forward!” His voice held the line.
In the midst of the chaos, Mancor’s eyes fixed on the center of the shadow army. There stood the great shaman of Rafia, taller than the rest, wrapped in black smoke. His name was never spoken, for people believed even saying it would curse them. Mancor knew the witches drew strength from him.
He turned to Portos and shouted above the roar, “The shaman! Bring him down!”
Portos raised his spear. He steadied himself, then hurled it with all his strength. The weapon flew true and struck the shaman in the heart.
The great shaman screamed and collapsed. The shadow army faltered, their forms twisting and breaking. Cries of fear rose among them. One by one, they retreated, fleeing back into Rafia.
Silence fell. Snow drifted over the field of the dead. Of every ten soldiers, only four remained.
The witches’ voices carried faintly on the wind: “We will return. When the moon turns red again, humanity shall be no more.”
Farmonia had won. But the victory was not Mancor’s alone.
The survivors gathered. They did not shout the king’s name. They shouted one name only.
“Portos! Portos!”
Mancor heard it. He forced a smile, but inside his heart hardened. His men should have cheered him, the king, but they had chosen another. From that day, Mancor no longer saw Portos as a loyal friend, but as a rival.
Titles and lands were given to others. Portos, the true hero of the battle, received nothing. He said nothing, but bitterness grew in his heart.
The Battle of Snow and Darkness gave Farmonia victory. But it also planted the seed of betrayal—a seed that would one day change the kingdom forever.