The forest was indifferent—just another witness to the quiet struggle unfolding beneath its twisted canopy. A crow, old and weathered by a thousand battles unseen, perched on a low-hanging branch, its black feathers gleaming in the dying light. The weight of time had turned the crow's gaze inward, where its deepest thoughts resided, heavy and dark like the storm clouds that always seemed to loom on the horizon. There was a quiet power in its stillness, but power, the crow knew, could feel like a burden, like chains masked as wings.

The sun’s rays danced warmly against Nikale’s skin as she nestled closer into her brother’s embrace. Eric could feel Nikale’s hair tickling the underside of his nose, but he didn’t move. The sky was a bewitching shade of blue, and the clouds drifted lazily across it, as if performing just for them. Time seemed to stand still. Their mother had been dead for two years today, and though it was hard for them, the world was moving on—and so should they.

Tears streamed down King Falem’s swollen eyes, his screams echoing through the frosty morning air, plunging the gathered crowd into a stunned silence. The sight was unbearable. The guard holding Brendor’s reins struggled as the steed became increasingly agitated, snorting and stamping in distress. Grageon Silverbeck came racing from the castle, his face pale with fear. "My lord!" he shouted, his voice trembling. "What has happened? Who has done this?"

King Falem stared down at his trembling, blood-stained hands, feeling nothing but numbness. The bitter night air kissed his tear-streaked face, tangling his black hair into damp, matted strands. The day’s brightness had faded, leaving only the cold darkness of the night, but he could still see the grass, stained a merciless crimson. Blood was everywhere. His eyes traced the trail as it intertwined with her black curls, which cascaded lifelessly over the earth. The scent of jasmine oil, which she had applied that morning, lingered faintly, mixing with the iron tang of blood. The sweet fragrance of his beloved Lamora would be no more.

The look on the King’s face was unspeakable. Torn between mourning his lost love and seeking the truth, he found himself trapped in a storm of conflicting emotions. The details of her death burned into his mind—each word about the rape stoking a fire in his heart. Hatred swelled within him, an unrelenting desire for vengeance. He wanted nothing more than to see their blood on his sword.

Silence filled the chamber halls as Gragion made his way up the winding staircase that led to the King’s chambers. Absentmindedly, he straightened his robes, running his fingers over the fabric before knocking on the door. The sound echoed through the quiet corridor. He waited... knocked again... nothing. Finally, Gragion pushed open the door to find King Falem lying on the bed, right where they had left him, sedated with sleeping pills.

The night’s air felt heavier than usual, weighed down with the kind of uneasiness that only death could bring. The castle walls seemed thicker and more distant as the villagers crowded into the Stag Stone Inn, their chatter low and anxious. The familiar scent of rosemary bread and aged wood hung in the air, offering little comfort against the tension that gripped the room. Outside, the streets of Odelin lay silent, the once lively bustle of villagers reduced to a mere echo.

Gragion shook his head, dipping his quill into the cinnamon-colored ink as he began to write. The brief remarks that filled the parchment were the same as each woeful letter he had penned before. It was his duty to inform the Council of Emeron of the Queen’s murder, a task made all the harder by the uncertain circumstances surrounding her death. The examination in her quarters had been brief. She was dead—that much was clear—

She dug into her coat pocket and retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes, but much like her heart, they were lifeless. She managed to save a half-smoked stick and, with shaking hands, flicked her lighter. The flame sputtered in the wind and rain, but eventually caught. She took a long drag, savoring the bitter taste.

"I remember being born." Those were the only words scratched onto the expensive, boutique paper. The pen moved with deliberate precision, held by a hand as delicate as porcelain. Her skin, pale and smooth, contrasted sharply with the dark ink. Her face, too, was doll-like, with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of countless lifetimes. The thinness of her wrists and the length of her fingers

"Where were you last night?" Johnny asked, his gaze fixed on the fresh cuts on Lola's arm. Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time he had to endure the pain of seeing her cut up and broken down. Her name was Lola. "What kind of name is Lola anyway?" she always said after having too many drinks. His eyes watched her closely, patiently waiting for an answer. She knew better than to meet his gaze, so she just sat there, smoking her cigarette, gazing out the window and feeling the warmth on her face. Her arms throbbed, but she would never admit that to anyone, not even Johnny.

Did anyone see you?" Sylvia murmured as she got up from the ground, flinging away the wet moss that clung to her palms. "I don’t think so," Gray whispered, his eyes darting nervously. "Luckily, the moon isn’t as strong tonight." Sylvia cast a fleeting glance through the trees at the waning moon. "We better keep moving. Death will be our fate if we linger much longer."

It was a chilly morning, the kind Emily usually cherished. She loved bundling up in her smoky grey wool peacoat, complemented by a vibrant red scarf and matching gloves. The cold air against her cheeks, the smell of fresh rain, and the crunch of leaves underfoot were comforting. Yet, this morning was different.

I've been coming to sit by our tree every day for eight months now. The beautiful weeping willow tree, its waterfall-like branches cascading down the hillside, keeps my memories of Gray strong. We used to picnic here