The night was heavy and long. Arthus could not sleep. He lay on the small bed in the new house Ser Ritchard had given them, staring at the ceiling beams above him while Elena and Marvin slept peacefully beside him. Every creak of the wood, every whisper of the wind through the trees outside, pressed on his mind. Tomorrow, he would rise and begin a new life away from the land his family had tended for generations. The thought sat like a stone in his chest.
Arthus turned carefully so as not to wake Elena. She was curled around their son, her arm resting lightly across the baby’s blanket. Marvin’s breathing was soft, a steady rhythm, the small sighs of an infant who knew nothing of fate or prophecy. To them, the world was simple—warmth, comfort, and the nearness of those who loved him. For Arthus, the world had never felt more uncertain.
He rose from the bed, careful not to disturb them, and crossed the room. His bare feet touched the cool stone floor. Outside, the night air drifted in through the open shutters, carrying the smell of pine and damp earth. He stepped out the door and sat on the bench just beyond the threshold, staring out into the dark line of trees. The road to Ritchard’s castle stretched beyond the clearing, a line of torches burning faintly in the distance.
The house was new, built from stone and timber cut from the forest. It stood apart from the castle but not far—just a short ride through the woods. Ritchard had ordered the path cleared and widened, even having a proper road built, so carts and riders could travel between the two quickly. Guards walked the road at night, their lanterns bobbing like fireflies. Arthus knew this was for his family’s safety. He was grateful, but it also reminded him of the burden that had been placed on their child.
He sat with his head in his hands, fear and wonder mixing in him like oil and water. Fear that he could not protect Elena and Marvin from the prophecy that had already begun to coil around their lives. Wonder at the thought that his son, so small and fragile now, might one day be at the center of battles that would decide the fate of men. He shook his head, unable to hold either thought for long.
Inside, on the table, lay the book Lady Floria had given him earlier that day. She had pressed it into his hands with a quiet, serious look. “Read this when the worry grows too heavy,” she had said. “The words are old, but sometimes old words steady the heart.”
Arthus returned inside, sat at the table, and pulled the book toward him. The leather cover was cracked and worn, the title faint but still clear: The Darkest Nights. He hesitated, running his fingers over the surface, then opened it. The candle flame flickered as the pages spread, casting moving shadows across the walls.
The script was uneven, old, but plain enough to read. Arthus began.
“Before men, the land was wilderness. Beasts hunted and hid. There were no homes or laws. Only strength. Only survival.”
“One winter night, a blue light fell from the sky. It struck the mountains with a roar that shook the earth. Forests burned. The ground cracked. When the smoke cleared, a cave lay open, and in it the air carried a strange power.”
“Animals that wandered near began to change. Some heard whispers they could not name. Some grew clever in their ways. A few rose to walk on two legs. Not all were touched, but those that were passed the change to their young.”
“After many seasons, two children were born—a brother and a sister. They were taller, stronger, and healed from wounds others could not survive. They were the first humans. From them, mankind spread across the land.”
“But men carried more than strength. From their own hearts, two powers rose. From love and hope came Dayriam, the God of Light. From anger and hate came Ishtar, the God of Darkness.”
“Dayriam is felt in warmth, family, and peace. Ishtar grows where cruelty and fear are chosen.”
“Since the first days of men, light and darkness have risen and fallen with the choices of the living.”
Arthus stopped, staring at the page. His lips moved as he repeated the final line under his breath. Light and darkness have risen and fallen with the choices of the living.
The words hit him harder than he expected. They were simple, but they left no room to hide. The fate of men, the power of gods themselves, bound to the choices of those who lived. He thought of Marvin. He thought of the villagers chanting as they left, raising his son’s name in songs and prayers. He thought of Elena, who had not flinched but had stood beside him, steady and sure.
Could it really be that simple? Could the gods grow or fade based on what men chose in their hearts?
Arthus closed the book, laying his hand over the leather cover as if to hold the words inside. He sat in silence, the only sound the faint crackle of the candle and the breathing of his family in the next room. For a moment, the fear that usually gnawed at him seemed less sharp. He could not control the prophecy, but perhaps he could control the choices he made, and the choices he taught his son to make.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Arthus rose and opened it.
Ser Ritchard stood there, dressed in a plain tunic with a cloak thrown over one shoulder. There were no guards, no ceremony. Just the man himself, tall and steady in the torchlight.
“I saw the light,” Ritchard said, nodding toward the candle inside. “Thought you might be awake.”
“I was,” Arthus admitted. He stepped aside. “Please, come in.”
Ritchard entered, glancing at the book on the table. “Floria gave it to you, then?”
“She did,” Arthus said. “It tells of the beginning. Of the blue light. Of Dayriam and Ishtar.”
Ritchard nodded once. “Old words, passed down so long most forget where they came from. But they last because they carry truth.”
Arthus hesitated. His voice dropped low. “If darkness grows when men choose it, how do I keep it from him?” He glanced toward the door of the room where Elena and Marvin slept.
“By choosing differently,” Ritchard said, his tone firm but calm. “By showing him how. And by keeping him close.”
Elena stirred, drawn by the sound of voices. She appeared in the doorway, holding Marvin against her shoulder. Her hair was loose, her face still soft with sleep, but her smile was warm when she saw them.
“You’re kind to come,” she said.
“Kindness is easy,” Ritchard replied. His eyes went to Marvin, small and drowsy in his mother’s arms. His voice softened. “But tonight I make a promise. From this day, Marvin is my godson. I will stand for him as if he were my own. No one will question his place here.”
Elena bowed her head, her eyes shining. “We are grateful.”
Arthus’s throat tightened. Words failed him. He stepped forward and gripped Ritchard’s arm with both hands, farmer’s hands rough against a lord’s sleeve. “Thank you, my friend.”
Ritchard gave a brief nod, then glanced again at the candle and the book. “Rest now. Tomorrow we begin with simple things. Paths, signals, doors. Solid rules to keep a house strong.”
“Solid things,” Arthus repeated, as though testing the weight of the words.
Ritchard smiled faintly. “Yes. Solid things.”
When he left, the door closed softly behind him, leaving the room quiet again. Outside, the new road glowed faintly with torchlight, a steady path leading back to the castle. Inside, Elena laid Marvin back in his cradle, smoothing the blanket over him with a gentle hand.
Arthus slid a scrap of twine into the book to mark the page and closed it.
“What did it say?” Elena asked softly.
“That men make the gods strong by what they choose,” Arthus answered. “Light grows with love. Darkness grows with hate.”
Elena brushed a strand of hair from her face and looked down at their son. “Then we will choose for him until he can choose for himself.”
Arthus nodded. His chest loosened, just a little. The candle flame flickered, then thinned and went out. Darkness filled the room, but this time it did not feel like a threat. It felt like a blanket drawn over them.
In the woods beyond, the road held steady, its torches burning against the night. And in the little house, under the quiet roof, the family slept.
The prophecy still waited. The world beyond still turned. But for now, the house was whole, and hope lived within it.